


A Study in Love

by benaddictedtosherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, HEA, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, Love Confessions, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Pining John, Pre-Reichenbach, Sharing a Bed, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 50,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benaddictedtosherlock/pseuds/benaddictedtosherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all started with a trip. Sherlock had been acting weird, and everyone thought he was just stressed, so he and John go on a trip to Fiji. Yet, what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation from the stresses of detective work only opened the door for much more stress and confusion when John begins to have strange feelings around his colleague, Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock is still acting strange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before I got an account here, and I've decided to post. Feel free to leave feedback. Constructive criticism is welcome, as this is the first fanfiction I've written. 
> 
> Also, this is un-beta'd so there will probably be some mistakes. I apologize in advance for them.
> 
> I own nothing except the storyline and occasional OC!

John Watson's eyelids fluttered open as the sun slowly rose above the horizon, casting out rays of light that shone through the light blue curtains that hung in front of the hotel room windows. He looked around the room for a bit before he decided to get up, but found that he was unable to. He sighed, knowing he was in for another awkward awakening like the one that had occurred the previous morning.

Due to a reservation mix-up, they'd received a room with only one bed. Neither man had been willing to let the other sleep on the floor, which resulted in their agreement to share the bed during their week-long stay in Fiji. John hadn't really minded the arrangement when it was made. After all, they would only be sleeping, and the bed was large enough for each man to have his own 'side'. It was completely platonic; John had made that perfectly clear.

However, when John looked down, he saw Sherlock's head resting on his shoulder, in almost the exact place as it had been the morning before, and his own arms wrapped around the sleeping detective. He'd remained frozen in place, unable to move due to the fact that his left arm was tucked underneath his friend, who had yet to wake. He had laid there for several minutes, unsure of what to do. Luckily for him, the awkward anguish was cut short when Sherlock stirred slightly, then sat up. John pulled back his arm, which had fallen asleep by that time, and the two briefly made eye contact before John coughed and looked away. He'd averted his eyes as Sherlock pulled the covers from himself, revealing his bare torso. Despite John's pleas that Sherlock sleep fully clothed, Sherlock had refused to wear a t-shirt to bed, though he was at least wearing underwear, thankfully.

"Will you put a shirt on now?" John asked, eyes still averted. He heard a heavy sigh come from the other side of the room. John turned to see Sherlock bent over his suitcase, digging through its contents. With his back arched like that, it was very easy to see each and every bump in Sherlock's spine. He stood up, and the fact that his spine was still very visible worried John. Sherlock had lost quite a bit of weight in the past month or so, and John couldn't figure out why. Yes, Sherlock didn't eat nearly as much as he needed to, but in the months following their meeting and moving in together his diet seemed to be improving. Now all of a sudden he was back to barely touching his food or skipping meals altogether. John knew something was wrong, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it, for Sherlock's sake.

"Hey, Sherlock," he said. The detective turned around, and it almost hurt to see how gaunt his face had become. John ignored the pain he felt in his chest and smiled at Sherlock.

"Um, would you like to go down to get some breakfast or something?" Sherlock immediately shook his head.

"No, that's fine. You can go ahead. I'm going to take a shower." John stood up and made his way towards the dark haired man who was currently holding two nearly identical blue shirts in the air.

"I can wait for you if you want."

"That's quite alright John but I'm not very hungry." Sherlock moved to walk past John but he reached out and grabbed his arm, stopping him. Sherlock glanced down at John's grip on his forearm for a brief moment, then met his gaze with a firm gaze of his own.

"That's what you said yesterday at supper." Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to get away, but John tightened his grip on Sherlock. "And at lunch you barely touched your salad."

"Yes, but I ate," Sherlock said rather defensively, his gaze beginning to lose intensity. John scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, if you can call two forkfuls eating."

"Let go of me," Sherlock demanded, though he made no attempt to free himself. John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock's for a moment more before sighing and removing his hand. Sherlock began rubbing his arm, and looking down John saw a bright red mark that had formed where his hand had been. He hadn't even realized he was holding onto Sherlock so tight, but the evidence was there, contrasting greatly with Sherlock's pale skin. John tried to apologize, but Sherlock just brushed him off and disappeared into the bathroom.

 

__________________

 

John and Sherlock were both silent as the two strolled side by side along the beach. The waves gently lapped at John's bare feet, both bringing sand over them and washing it away. Sherlock had taken his shoes off, and was holding them in his hands as he walked. It was strange not to see Sherlock in a suit or his favorite trench coat, but rather in a pair of grey board shorts and a black t-shirt. John found himself smiling as he took in the detectives appearance, wondering how he could still look so mysterious and somber in beach attire.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock suddenly asked him. John looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze, surprised that he had spoken. These were the first words to leave Sherlock's lips since he'd told John to let go of his arm earlier that morning. John attempted to form some kind of sentence, but all that came out were unintelligible sounds that confused even John. Sherlock furrowed his brow and tilted his head slightly to the left, a sign that he was confused by John's sudden inability to speak as well. John just let out a sigh and shook his head.

"Nothing," he said, "I'm laughing at nothing." He looked out at the horizon, hoping Sherlock would just drop the subject, but he didn't.

"You had to have been smiling about something. Normally I wouldn't care but you were looking at me, or at least in my direction so I'd like to know what was it about me that made you smile?" John looked back at Sherlock, but his dark haired friend was now looking off in another direction, avoiding eye contact. That was strange for Sherlock as well. Usually he didn't mind getting directly in John's face and having an old fashioned stare off, but lately it seemed that Sherlock looked at him less and less.

John was beginning to wonder if he was possibly the cause of Sherlock's strange behavior when his thoughts were interrupted by the detective's deep voice.

"John."

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw that Sherlock had turned to face him again. He looked down before looking Sherlock in the eyes. He immediately wished he hadn't, however, for as soon as he did his stomach twisted itself into a knot. He didn't know why, it was just Sherlock, but for some reason the look he was giving him made his internal organs do flips. He placed a hand over his abdomen, as if that would help, and forced a smile.

"I was just thinking... you look so, different in those clothes."

Sherlock looked down at what he was wearing, then looked back up at John with a serious expression on his face. John stared back, and for a few seconds they were just staring at each other. Then, out of nowhere Sherlock let out a deep laugh and nodded his head, still looking at John.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose I do look a bit funny in this."

"Oh, no," John said, "Not funny. Just different."

"Is it a... good different?"

John turned to look at Sherlock quickly, and when he saw the softened expression on his friend's face, letting him know that he genuinely cared about his opinion of what he looked like in board shorts and a t-shirt, he smiled.

"Yes," he said, nodding, "Very good."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up ever so slightly before he cleared his throat and he let the serious expression come over his face as it had been before. He kept his gaze forward as they walked, but John could still see the hint of a smile on his bow shaped lips. John found himself smiling as well, glad that he and Sherlock were on good terms again.

He glanced out at the horizon, and neither man spoke as they walked. It was silent, just as it was moments before, only now both men wore smiles on their faces as they walked.


	2. Two

John and Sherlock stayed out on the beach until the sun began to dip down into the water, creating a beautiful arrangement of oranges, reds, and yellows in the evening sky. John would have been content watching the sunset, but Sherlock seemed in such a hurry to get back to the hotel, and John didn't want to make him wait. However, while the duo were making their way up the stone path to the front entrance, John kept sneaking glances over his shoulder at the beautiful setting sun.

Once when he was turned around Sherlock stopped suddenly, causing John to bump into him. He apologized profusely while steadying himself, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He just took a step closer to John, who was staring up at him with his lips slightly parted.

"You know John," he said in a low voice, "if you wanted to watch the sunset, you should've just said so." Sherlock took a step back and smiled at John before turning and continuing on down the path to the hotel. John stood frozen for a moment before he remembered where he was, and that it was beginning to cool down with the sun no longer in the sky. He quickly caught up to Sherlock and followed him into the hotel and to their room. He waited patiently while Sherlock unlocked the door, and as soon as the door was opened he rushed inside the room and grabbed the remote. Sherlock, who was still standing at the door, was staring at him strangely. He smiled sheepishly and held up the remote.

"I uh," he coughed awkwardly, "I…" he trailed off, trying to think of some excuse for why he made a mad dash for the remote without sounding crazy. He knew that if Sherlock was allowed to choose what they watched it would be something involving murder and mysteries, and John didn't feel like watching another marathon of 'I Married a Monster' before bed. He'd had nightmares the night before as a result, which might have been the cause of his cuddling up to Sherlock in his sleep. He didn't want to take a chance of that happening again.

"Ah, well," he said, when he remembered that Sherlock was waiting for him to complete his sentence. "I just really wanted to watch…" he turned the TV on, and some game show appeared on the screen. "This." Sherlock closed the door behind him, then went to sit on the bed. "It's my favorite show."

"No it's not," Sherlock said, his voice barely audible. "I know you just didn't want me to get the remote. Did the murder mysteries scare you last night?" John sighed and hung his head. There was no point in trying to deny it.

"Maybe." Sherlock laughed, and John glared at him before sitting on the edge of the bed next to where Sherlock's feet were. They sat in silence until the show went off, then Sherlock got up and went inside the bathroom. John stood as well and walked over to the mini fridge in search of a beverage. He grabbed a bottle of water and sat back down, but on the floor this time.

When Sherlock came out of the bathroom he came over and joined John on the floor. He was close enough to John that he could feel the heat radiating off of his body. Sherlock stretched out his long legs, tapping John's foot with his own as he did so. When John looked over at him confused, he just smiled and turned his attention to the television. John's eyes remained fixed on his friend's face for a moment longer than they should've. For some reason John found himself unable to tear his gaze away from those perfectly chiseled cheekbones and multicolored eyes. He had no idea just what color to use to describe them, so he settled for calling them beautiful.

That was when John had to stop himself. He had just called Sherlock's eyes beautiful. Something was wrong. Guys don't think things like that about their friends, no matter how amazing their eyes were. John forced himself to watch the television, though the only thing his mind was focused on was the detective sitting beside him.

___

On the last day of their trip John and Sherlock decided to go to a local tiki bar and order a few drinks, just so they could say they did something other than walk on the beach during the day and watch TV at night. John ordered two different drinks, neither of which he could remember the names of, and Sherlock just got a glass of water.

"Sherlock," John said, when the bartender left them alone to make the drinks. "You said you'd try something."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"I am trying something new. I've never been to a tiki bar before." John rolled his eyes, but when he saw the smile on Sherlock's face he smiled as well. "Would it make you feel better if I got something more…exotic?" John nodded his head, and Sherlock called the bartender back over. He told the young man to 'surprise him' with something that wasn't disgusting and wouldn't make him 'too drunk'. John couldn't help but laugh when he said this.

"Sherlock," he said when the bartender left again. "You can't get drunk from one drink."

"Is that why you ordered two?" Sherlock asked without looking away from the bartender who was mixing their drinks. John frowned, but said nothing. They didn’t speak again until after their drinks had been delivered and paid for, but even then it was just mindless chatter. John finished his first drink quite quickly, but Sherlock hadn't even touched his drink. John couldn't remember the name of it, but he remembered it sounded quite exotic. John pushed his empty glass to the side and grabbed the next one. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

"What?" John asked, feeling slightly self conscious. Sherlock shook his head and took a sip of his drink. He made a strange face, then took another sip. And another. John watched with an amused smile as Sherlock finished his drink in record time and ordered another one.

"I guess you liked that," he said to Sherlock, who just laughed and nodded. He reached over and placed a hand on John's shoulder, not saying anything, and John began to feel very uncomfortable. The warmth from Sherlock's hand spread throughout his entire body, and he could feel his face getting hotter than any other part of him.

"Thanks for bringing me here John," Sherlock said, his words slightly slurred. Perhaps it was possible to get drunk from one drink. Especially if one hadn't ever built up a tolerance for alcohol, and John was sure Sherlock hadn't. John's mouth turned into a small smile and his eyes moved from Sherlock's hand to his face.

"You're welcome, Sherlock."


	3. Three

Despite the fact that Sherlock was incredibly thin and underweight, John still struggled to support his weight as they left the tiki bar. Sherlock had downed four more of those drinks and as a result was now completely hammered. It was strange to see Sherlock drunk. He was still himself, arrogant and everything, but his words were incredibly slurred and he went off on tangents about the most random things. While John was trying to get him to leave the tiki bar he had tried to convince a group of tourists that he was a native citizen of Guatemala. He rattled off facts and information that no one other than a native would know, and even in his obviously drunken state the tourists seemed to believe him. Then when they made it back to the hotel he went on an hour long rant about how room service contributes to obesity. Then he began complaining about some book he'd read recently. He wouldn't tell John anything about the novel except that the ending was atrocious. John wasn't sure what was worse, the fact that Sherlock had then spent an hour listing synonyms for the word atrocious, or the fact that he'd actually sat silently and listened to them all.

John sat on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock as he stumbled around the room, mumbling to himself about how he should write a book. When he heard this, John found himself laughing quite loudly. Sherlock sent him a harsh glare, and he immediately shut up.

"Sorry Sherlock," he said standing up. He took a few steps towards the detective. "I'm sure your book would be phenomenal."

"Of course it would," Sherlock said, walking away from him. He ran his hands over his face and let out a breath. When he opened his eyes, he looked around like he'd never seen the inside of a hotel room before. "Why is the room spinning?"

"Because you're pissed drunk."

"I'm what?"

"Drunk. Intoxicated. Inebriated. Need I go on?" John smiled to himself when he saw the look on Sherlock's face when he said this. He looked like he couldn't believe John actually had those words in his vocabulary. After a while a slow smile spread across his face.

"I see what you've done," he said, wagging a finger at John. The movement of his hand seemed to throw Sherlock a bit off balance, as he stumbled around a bit before finding a wall to lean on. He folded his arms across his chest and gave John a knowing look. John just stared back, completely confused by the way Sherlock was looking at him.

"What, have I done, exactly?" Sherlock took in a deep breath, and laughed. The deep rumbling of his voice could be felt in John's chest. It was a strange sensation, but he almost liked it.

"You planned this." Sherlock attempted to push himself off of the wall, but after wobbling a bit on his feet he leaned against it once again. "You took me to that bar to get me drunk, so you could finally be the most intelligent one in the room." He laughed and shook his head. "Good one."

"Sherlock, I have no idea what you're talking about." John walked over to where Sherlock was standing and grabbed his arm, putting it around his own shoulders. He placed his arm around his waist and pulled him away from the wall.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock asked.

"You need to be laying down." Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder while they walked across the room, and when they reached the bed he wouldn't let go of him. "Sherlock…"

"I get it now," he said, "You had to have gotten me drunk for a reason. If it's not to be smarter than me because face it, who could be, you must have done it to get me into bed. That's what people do isn't it?"

"What?!" John asked, trying to pull away from Sherlock. The detective only tightened the grip he had on John's shoulder, and wrapped his other arm around John's waist. John began to feel quite uncomfortable, and for some reason the room now felt to be about a thousand degrees at least. Sherlock's fingers began fiddling with the hem of John's trousers, and John had no idea what to do. He stood frozen in place while Sherlock's other hand moved from his shoulder to his neck and he brought his mouth to John's ear.

"Just for the record, if you wanted to have your way with me, there would be no need for alcohol." John turned his head to look at Sherlock, who was giving him a look that could only be described as 'seductive'. John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat while the two of them stared at each other, their faces mere inches apart. The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up, forming a lopsided grin, but the smile was soon replaced by a look of shock and worry and Sherlock clasped a hand over his mouth. He immediately released his hold on John and ran to the bathroom. The scene that came next John wished he could forever erase from his memory.

He stood beside Sherlock and rubbed his back while he emptied the contents of his stomach into the porcelain throne before him. He could feel Sherlock's spine even through the shirt he was wearing, but said nothing. At that moment Sherlock needed a friend, not a critic, so that's what John would be.

John helped Sherlock brush his teeth, and allowed him to rest his complete body weight on him as he carried him to the bed. Sherlock flopped down face first onto the mattress, and was asleep within minutes. John stood back and watched the sleeping detective for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. Then he remembered that they were leaving for home the next day and he hadn't finished packing. Once he got all of his things together he packed up Sherlock's stuff as well. While he did this he thought back to what Sherlock had said before he'd run into the bathroom, and his confusion grew. What had he meant by that?

As John dressed for bed he tried to get all thoughts of Sherlock's drunken words out of his head, but as he looked beside him at the detective's sleeping face, he knew he never would be able to.

The next morning was a bit hectic for John. When he woke up Sherlock was still very much asleep, and they were behind schedule, as the alarm John hadn't gone off for some reason. He tried to rouse Sherlock, but the hungover detective refused to get up. Not even when John told him that they would miss their flight if he didn't move did he wake. John had to actually pick him up and help him get dressed so they could check out and get a cab to the airport.

John practically dragged Sherlock along behind him as they made their way into the airport. Luckily they arrived just in time to get everything squared away and got on the plane with only a few minutes to spare.

"That was a close one," John said when they finally sat down in their seats. Sherlock didn't respond. He hadn't said a word since he'd woken up. He sat in his seat with his eyes closed, massaging his temples. He'd been doing that in the cab as well. His head must've been killing him. John called for one of the flight attendants and asked for a coffee to give Sherlock. He had heard somewhere that coffee was good for hangovers. When she brought him the cup he handed it to Sherlock, who refused.

"Listen Sherlock it'll help."

"No it won't."

"You won't know until you try it." Sherlock glared at him, then grabbed the cup and drank it all in one gulp, seemingly unfazed by how hot it must've been. Sherlock gave John the cup back and stared out the window. John caught himself staring at him while he did so, and forced himself to look away. His mind became flooded with memories of the previous night, and he was overcome with an urge to ask Sherlock about it. Then again, Sherlock probably didn't even remember what he'd said. John would never know if he didn't ask though, so he lightly tapped Sherlock on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Um, Sherlock?" He didn't speak, but Sherlock did glance sideways at John, letting him know he had his attention. "Do you… do you remember anything from yesterday?"

"Not a thing." Sherlock turned his entire body towards the window and somehow managed to fold himself up in the seat so that his knees were under his chin. After a moment of silence he spun around to face John with a slightly worried expression on his face. "Why?" he asked. "What happened?" John shook his head. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Then why ask if I remember last night?"

"I was just curious."

"John." When he turned to look at Sherlock and saw the expression on his face, a mix of so many different emotions, he knew he couldn't not tell him. Yet, as he opened his mouth he immediately regretted his decision.

"Um…you kept saying…you kept saying that I had planned to get you drunk." Sherlock didn't say anything. He sat quietly, most likely waiting to see if John would say anything else. "You said that I wanted to be smarter than you. That's why I got you drunk." Sherlock stared at John for a moment longer, then turned to look out the window again.

"Is that all?" he asked. John debated whether or not he should tell Sherlock about what else he'd said, wondering if it was better to be honest, or to avoid what would undoubtedly be an awkward conversation.

"Yeah, that was all." Sherlock glanced at him briefly, eyebrows furrowed. John began to think that Sherlock knew he was lying. He could feel his heart rate speeding up, and he fought hard to keep an even face as he stared back at Sherlock. Then Sherlock dropped his gaze momentarily, and looked out the window once more.

"Good," he said quietly.


	4. Four

"How was the trip boys? Did you enjoy yourselves? Did you meet any interesting people? Did Sherlock solve any mysteries?"

John and Sherlock hadn't even gotten in the door of their flat completely before Mrs. Hudson began bombarding them with questions. Sherlock handed John his suitcase, then led Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen so they could sit down and talk. John decided to ignore the fact that Sherlock had basically given him the task of bringing all their stuff in, but he wasn't in any mood to chat at the moment. He still felt a bit weird from the night before. It was a bit strange; He couldn’t completely figure out just how he felt, or why he felt that way. It was quite peculiar, and he didn't know what to do to make it go away.

Sherlock, however, seemed completely fine. His hangover was now a forgotten memory to him, much like what he'd said to John in the hotel room. John however was sure those words would be haunting him for quite some time. He tried again to occupy his mind with other thoughts while he dragged the cases into the living room and went back downstairs to retrieve the other three bags. He struggled a bit to get them up the stairs, but he didn't want to make another trip.

He eventually made it up the stairs and placed the bags he was carrying on the floor. He grabbed Sherlock's two suitcases first and took them to his bedroom. He placed the cases on the floor, not wanting to make Sherlock's bed even more of a mess than it was. The pillows were on opposite corners of the mattress, and the sheets were strewn about as if there had been a fight between them. Sherlock obviously had been tossing and turning in his sleep quite a bit the night before they left for Fiji. John found this to be rather strange, as when he and Sherlock had been asleep in the hotel he hadn't moved an inch.

John returned to the living room and grabbed his own bags, not paying attention to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson's conversation as he did so. He thought he heard his name, but he was more concerned with getting his things unpacked than he was with figuring out what those two were talking about. He stayed in his room for quite some time, trying to figure out just where to put his clothes, and the few souvenirs he had purchased on their trip.

John was trying to find a place to put his new ceramic palm tree when he heard Sherlock calling his name. He put the tree on his bedside table and made his way downstairs. Mrs. Hudson was gone and Sherlock was standing by the door tapping away on his phone.

"Yes?" he asked, hoping to get his attention.

"Lestrade called. I'm heading out for a bit."

"Really Sherlock?" John asked, exasperated. "We just got back from holiday and you're already going out to work on a case?" Sherlock just nodded his head, like what he was doing was perfectly fine. "Don't you think you should rest a bit?"

"Rest? John don't be absurd. We just got back from holiday and you're talking about resting." He rolled his eyes and sighed, which for some reason John found humorous. Sherlock watched John carefully while he put his scarf on and tucked his phone inside the pocket of his trenchcoat.

"I'm guessing you don't want to come along then," he said. John thought for a moment, and seriously considered going along, but ultimately decided against it. He could use a bit of rest, and a break from being around Sherlock might be just what he needed to get his mind off of things for a bit. He shook his head, and Sherlock's expression seemed to grow a bit sad when he did. He nodded his head curtly, then turned and was out the door.

John stood alone in front of the door for a few minutes after Sherlock left, unsure of what to do. He was still a bit upset that Sherlock had run off as soon as they'd gotten home. Yet, he wasn't surprised. Despite the fact that Sherlock had told him during the cab ride to the flat that he'd enjoyed their time in Fiji, John knew he was probably itching to get back to work. He smiled to himself, reminding himself that Sherlock was…well… Sherlock, and he, unlike so many people John knew, actually enjoyed his line of work. He didn't know why he'd thought a break from crime solving would have helped Sherlock. If anything he had become worse. He had started having extreme mood swings and he had skipped so many meals John couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Sherlock eat something. He was really starting to get worried.

While he waited for Sherlock to return, John updated his blog. He wrote about their trip to Fiji, leaving out the part about the shared bed. People talked enough as it is. He wrote about the beautiful sunsets, and the landscape of the island. He added a small bit about when Sherlock got drunk at the tiki bar on their last day, leaving out a few things that occurred in the hotel room.

As he read over the entry before submitting it, John realized just how much he'd enjoyed their trip. Granted, the most exciting thing they did was go swimming in the ocean once, but it had been nice to just 'hang out' with his best friend. When they were laying out on the beach talking about nothing, Sherlock had seemed so incredibly…human. It was nice to know that there was actually a normal person hidden beneath all that craziness that is Sherlock Holmes.

John stepped away from his laptop to go make himself a cup of tea, and when he returned to the living room Sherlock was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper. John had been so surprised to see him he'd nearly dropped his cup.

"Um, hello." Sherlock simple gave a quick nod of the head, not looking up from the paper. He looked upset. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

John could tell from the tone of his voice that his statement was far from true. He sighed and sat down in his armchair. He took a sip of his tea, glancing up at Sherlock over the cup.

"You're not fine," he said, putting the cup on a nearby table. He folded his hands in his lap and stared at Sherlock. The detective looked up from his paper, and when he saw the way John was watching him a look of worry flashed across his features momentarily before being replaced with an emotionless stare.

"I'm fine," he repeated, his voice breaking slightly. As soon as he spoke Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, knowing his voice had betrayed him. John kept his eyes trained on his friend.

"Sherlock, tell me what's wrong." He said nothing. "Did something happen while you were out?" Still nothing. "Sherlock it won't do you any good to hold it in."

"How do you know?!" Sherlock shouted, startling John. The look of anger on Sherlock's face was quite frightening. Neither of them made a sound until Sherlock let out a slow breath and his face relaxed. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. John grabbed the cup from the table and took a sip. It had already gotten cold. He stood to take the cup back into the kitchen and empty it.

"I'm sorry," came a quiet voice from the other side of the room. John stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned around to face Sherlock. His face was hidden behind the newspaper that was being held a bit too high in the air. John turned back around and went into the kitchen. When he returned to the living room Sherlock was standing at the window nearest the sofa, staring at nothing it seemed. John sat down in his chair and grabbed his laptop.

"I couldn't figure it out," Sherlock said after a few moments of silence. John briefly glanced up from his laptop screen, but Sherlock was still staring out the window.

"Figure what out?"

"There was a robbery. No fingerprints or witnesses, but one of the robbers had dropped a bag of crisps while they were escaping. He must've been wearing gloves when he bought them because there weren't any prints on the bag. Lestrade called me, hoping I could help them out and I… I couldn't." Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper by the time he finished talking. John could tell just how much it hurt him to say what he had. He felt a slight pain in his chest for his friend.

"Well that's nothing to be upset about," John said, standing up. He put his laptop in his chair and took a few steps towards Sherlock. "Not every problem can be solved in one try."

"That might be true for you," Sherlock mumbled.

"And you too, today at least," John shot back. He immediately regretted it when he saw the look on Sherlock's face. "Sorry." Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned away from the window. He began pacing back and forth.

"I just don't understand," Sherlock said, running a hand through his hair. "It was such a simple case. I should've solved it in a matter of minutes but… I just couldn't…focus. I've never had this problem before."

"Don't worry about it," John said, coming over and placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, only to have Sherlock shrug him off. "Come on, let's go get dinner. Eating will take your mind off of this."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said, walking out of the room. 

"But you haven't eaten in days!" John shouted after him. When he received no reply he grabbed his laptop and went up to his room. He stayed there for the rest of the night.


	5. Five

In the week following their return from Fiji, things with Sherlock had gone from bad to worse. He hadn't left the flat in the past few days, despite the fact that Lestrade had called for him several times. John had only seen him eat once, and that was just a single biscuit a few days ago. He had gotten even thinner, even after John thought he couldn't lose any more weight. He hated seeing his best friend in such a way, but he had no idea what to do to help him.

Every night John could hear Sherlock playing his violin downstairs, and every night he listened as the songs he played grew sadder and sadder in nature. One night as John lay awake in bed, wondering just what could be wrong with Sherlock, he felt his stomach begin to rumble. He checked the time on his digital clock that sat on his bedside table: 1 am. It was the perfect time for a late night snack.

John grabbed the first house coat he saw and threw it on as he descended the stairs. When he reached the living room he saw Sherlock standing by one of the windows, playing away on his violin. John decided not to interrupt him, and went into the kitchen. After searching in several cabinets and cupboards he found a package of biscuits and grabbed those. He walked out into the living room and sat down in his armchair. He ate silently while he looked up at Sherlock who, despite the fact that he was standing less than five feet away, seemed to not have noticed John yet, or so John thought.

"What are you doing up?" Sherlock asked.

"I could ask you the same thing," John said in reply. Neither of them spoke again for a while.

"I couldn't sleep," Sherlock said softly. John took the time to look over Sherlock's disheveled appearance. His hair was a mess, falling in messy waves away from his crown, covering his face partially as he looked down at the instrument he was holding. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants, as well as a wrinkled blue robe. It was the first time John had seen Sherlock in over twenty four hours, as Sherlock had spent all of yesterday in his bedroom. He was a mess, but John said nothing about his appearance and went to throw the empty package away. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room for a moment watching Sherlock at the window, unsure if he should leave him be or try and talk to him.

"Goodnight John," he heard. Sherlock was still facing the window, still playing, his head turned downward. The thought crossed John's mind for a moment to go to Sherlock and attempt to console him, but he knew it would be useless. Whatever problem Sherlock was going through was obviously too big to tackle tonight. He sighed to himself and a dull ache made its presence known inside his chest as he turned to go up the stairs.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

__________

It had taken John a while to fall back asleep the previous night. He had laid awake in his bed for quite some time listening to the sound of Sherlock's violin from downstairs. Every now and again the music would stop for a few seconds, then pick back up from where it had left off. John figured he was composing something in an attempt to soothe himself. He remembered Sherlock telling him once that composing music was a sort of escape for him. When he wanted to keep his mind busy he played something that had already been written. When he wanted his mind clear he focused it on creating new music. However, John couldn't help but notice how incredibly melancholy the tune sounded, full of longing and despair. He hadn't known a simple instrument could evoke such emotions, but there he was, nearly brought to tears by the sad sound of Sherlock's violin. He wasn’t sure which hurt more: the dejected and forlorn sound of the music he was hearing, or the fact that Sherlock was the one creating this depressing melody. He just hoped everything would be okay in the morning.

 

When he woke up, just a few hours later, the entire flat was silent. After he had a shower and got himself dressed, John went downstairs to see if there was anything in the kitchen he could turn into breakfast.

While he stood in the kitchen John took a glance into the living room, and saw a figure sitting in his armchair. Even in the darkness he could see the curly hair that undoubtedly belonged to Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock's arm was draped over the armrest, the bow of the violin laying on the ground nearby. It looked like Sherlock had played himself to sleep.

From that point on John made sure to be extra quiet as to not wake Sherlock. He had been doing good until he reached for his cup of steaming hot tea and dropped it after realizing just how hot the cup was as a result of the tea it contained. The cup crashed to the floor and several profanities escaped from John's lips. He heard movement in the living room and looked to see that Sherlock had awaken. He rolled his eyes and groaned internally at having waken him up. That was probably the only sleep Sherlock had had in days, and John had ruined it with his stupid tea cup.

Seconds later a sleepy Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen holding his violin in his left hand, scratching the back of his head with his right. He looked at John, then down at the broken cup and tea on the floor. He looked back up at John with a blank expression on his face then turned and walked back out. John picked up the pieces of the cup and threw them away, and as he was cleaning up the spilled tea he heard Sherlock playing his violin again. The tune he was now playing sounded happier than the one he'd been playing earlier that night/morning, though not by much. John hoped that meant he was at least in a slightly better mood. Perhaps the few hours of sleep had done him well.

John poured himself a new cup of tea, and held it with a firm grip as he walked to his chair and sat down. Sherlock was standing at the window, facing him, eyes on his violin as he played. John took a sip of his tea and watched him while he played. His long, slender fingers handled the instrument with a certain elegance John had never seen before. There was a look of pure concentration on Sherlock's face, as if his life depended on him playing this song right. His eyes briefly met John's and the corner of his mouth turned upward slightly. John smiled back, glad to see that his friend was feeling better.

When John got up to wash his cup out Sherlock's phone started ringing. John could only make out bits and pieces of Sherlock's end of the conversation, but he could hear Sherlock denying the person's request, whatever it was.

A few minutes later Sherlock walked into the kitchen, phone in hand, and stood next to John who was leaning against one of the counters. Their arms brushed together, and John could've sworn he felt goose bumps appear underneath the sleeve of his jumper. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, so their arms wouldn't touch, and tried to shake off the weird feeling he got from the contact. Sherlock turned and looked down at him, slightly confused, but he just smiled up at him innocently.

Sherlock smiled back at him, and John found himself glancing down at Sherlock's lips quite often in the five seconds they spent staring at each other. The right corner of Sherlock's mouth tugged up a bit more, and when John looked up into Sherlock's eyes he was giving him the same look he had when he was drunk in their hotel room in Fiji. John's lips parted slightly, and Sherlock's gaze only intensified. John's eyes flicked back down to Sherlock's lips as he subconsciously leaned in until their faces were barely an inch apart.

Suddenly there was a loud clanging sound, and John froze in place. Sherlock's eyes grew slightly and he suddenly stooped to the floor. John looked down while Sherlock picked up his phone, then let out a breath and took a step back. Sherlock cleared his throat while he checked his phone for any cracks or scratches, and John walked out of the kitchen. He began pacing back and forth, while he tried to figure out what had just happened.

John took a seat in his armchair and searched for a newspaper to read. He heard a door slam somewhere else in the flat, and guessed it was Sherlock going into his room. He guessed it was for the better. He wasn't sure if he could handle seeing him after whatever that was that had just taken place in the kitchen.


	6. Six

In the days following the 'incident' in the kitchen, things had grown to be quite awkward between Sherlock and John. Well, things had become awkward for John; Sherlock seemed completely unfazed by it and was acting as if nothing had happened. Each morning when John came down the stairs Sherlock was sitting on the sofa reading the paper and drinking tea. He never looked up from the paper, but occasionally gave a slight nod of the head to acknowledge John. Still, despite the fact that Sherlock was trying to act normal, they hadn't spoken to each other in days, except for the time John went grocery shopping and Sherlock asked him to buy some chocolates.

The next time John heard Sherlock's voice was about a week after the little scene in the kitchen. John had been sitting out in the living room. He had thought about writing something for his blog, but since he and Sherlock hadn't even been speaking in the past week, and Sherlock hadn't picked up another case, he had nothing interesting to write. He decided to watch some daytime television to keep his mind busy for a few hours or until he could figured out something else to do.

While John was channel surfing, he heard a door open somewhere in the flat. Seconds later Sherlock appeared beside him, fully dressed in a blue oxford shirt and black trousers. John pressed the mute button on the remote and looked up to Sherlock, who was fiddling with his sleeve and avoiding eye contact.

"Would you like to join me for lunch?" Sherlock asked, still not looking in John's direction. He was surprised by the offer, but glad it had been made. He was starting to miss hanging out with Sherlock. He found himself smiling and nodding his head before he realized Sherlock still wasn't looking at him. He cleared his throat and stood up.

"Yes. Sure I would." Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards. He pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth and nodded.

"Okay, good. You in the mood for Italian?"

"Sure."

John went upstairs to get his shoes, and when he came back downstairs Sherlock was wearing his coat and tying a scarf around his neck. It seemed he never left the flat without those two things. John grabbed a jacket from a nearby table and put it on, then followed Sherlock down the stairs and outside. Sherlock hailed a cab and soon the two were on their way to an unknown destination. Well, unknown to John. Sherlock had simply given the cabbie an address, then sat back in the seat and stared out the window.

While they rode in silence John glanced over at Sherlock ever so often, just to make sure he was still there. He felt the need to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, and that Sherlock really was really sitting beside him, and not holed up in his bedroom like he had been since they got back from Fiji.

Once when John looked over at Sherlock he found that Sherlock had been looking at him as well. They both turned their heads and looked out their respective windows. They didn't speak. They didn't move. Suddenly John began to feel uncomfortable, and almost regretted getting into the cab with Sherlock. What in the world was he supposed to say? He wished he'd thought about it before now.

"So, um, where are we going?" He asked, trying to ease some of the awkward tension.

"A restaurant." John rolled his eyes.

"I know that," he said, exasperated. "I meant what restaurant."

"That's for me to know and for you to find out." John turned to look at Sherlock, who was smirking at him. John found himself smiling despite the agitation he felt about not knowing where he was headed. He and Sherlock shared a laugh, and Sherlock began talking about some ancient Italian legend he'd heard of years ago. Before they knew it, the cab had stopped and it was time to get out.

Their steps were in sync as they made their way to the entrance. The maître d' greeted Sherlock with a warm smile and a handshake. He led the two of them to a table in the back of the restaurant, and after chatting with Sherlock for a few moments left them alone. John picked up a menu, and, much to his surprise, so did Sherlock. John peered at him over the top of the laminated paper and watched his eyes as they scanned over the menu.

Sherlock must've felt eyes on him, as he looked up suddenly and caught John's gaze. He lowered the menu slightly and raised an eyebrow, as if he were asking 'what?'. John just shook his head and looked down again. After a few minutes he looked up again, and saw that Sherlock was still staring at him. It appeared he hadn't moved at all since John last laid his eyes on him. This time John was the one to raise an eyebrow, but Sherlock didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed on John, and John found himself unable to tear his gaze away from Sherlock's face. All of a sudden the scenes from the kitchen and the hotel room flooded John's mind and for some reason his mouth became incredibly dry. He glanced around the room, wondering where their waiter was.

John looked back to Sherlock, who was still staring at him after all this time. John's face became hot and he looked away again. He saw a young blonde woman wearing a white collar shirt and black skirt walking up to them with a smile on her face and a writing pad in her hand. She introduced herself as their waitress and took their drink orders. After both men ordered their drinks she turned and left, but not after giving Sherlock a once over, several times. John glared at her back while she walked away.

"Are you alright?" John heard Sherlock ask from across the table. He nodded his head, still glaring at the waitress while she visited another table. He tore his eyes away from her and looked down at the table. He heard a chuckle, and looked up to see Sherlock watching him with an amused smile.

"What, are you upset that she didn't 'check you out' instead of me?" Sherlock asked, holding up air quotes. John just glared at him before looking at the menu once more. He'd already decided what he wanted, but he needed a distraction from Sherlock.

The waitress returned with their drinks. John noticed how she leaned too far forward than she needed to when placing Sherlock's drink in front of him. John watched as she shamelessly flirted at Sherlock while taking his order, and smiled to himself when Sherlock completely disregarded her attempts to woo him. She didn't seem to mind, however, and continued to give Sherlock her full attention, batting her eyelashes and toying with her hair when she should've been writing down Sherlock's order. He'd had to repeat his order three times before she wrote it all down. When she turned to John to take his order he was glaring at her once again. She raised both her eyebrows before looking back and forth between John and Sherlock.

"Oh," she said, "I'm sorry." John frowned and stared at her, not understanding why she was apologizing.

"What?"

"I didn’t know you…" she trailed off as she looked at Sherlock, who was staring at John.

"What? No we're not…"

"No, no it's fine. I'm sorry." She quickly took John's order, then rushed off. John sighed and rested his chin in his hand, propping his elbow up on the table while he looked to Sherlock. The detective was staring past his head, not moving a muscle. John turned around to see what he was looking at, but there was nothing there but a wall. When he turned back to Sherlock, he was no longer looking at the wall, but at John. His expression was blank, but his eyes were a different story. It was almost as if each color found in his irises represented a different emotion.

"What were you looking at?" John asked him before taking a sip of his water. He had forgotten how dry his mouth was until then. He ended up drinking half of the glass in one gulp. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and looked away.

"Nothing."

"Oh, so you were just staring off into space then?"

Sherlock nodded, and the waitress returned with their food and placed it on the table, without saying a word to either of them. She gave them a small smile, then nodded and walked away. John picked up his fork and began eating the pasta that had been placed in front of him. Sherlock took one bite of his salad and put the fork down. He grabbed his cup of water and emptied it, then folded his hands in his lap and watched John as he ate.

"Were you thinking about something?" John asked, trying not to bring up the fact that Sherlock's appetite still hadn't seemed to improve. Sherlock nodded his head again, not breaking eye contact. John looked down at his food and began stabbing at a noodle with his fork. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing." Sherlock quickly replied. John's eyes immediately flicked up to Sherlock, who was staring down at his lap. When Sherlock looked up again and saw the way John was staring at him, his eyes darted around the room before landing on his salad. He grabbed his fork and shoved some lettuce into his mouth. John sighed, then returned to eating.

He was about halfway finished with his meal when Sherlock's phone began ringing. Without checking to see who it was, Sherlock took the call.

"You've reached Sherlock Holmes." There was a brief pause while the person on the other line talked. "Can it wait?" Another pause. Sherlock's eyes briefly glanced in John's direction. "I’m…out with John. We're at a restaurant."

When Sherlock noticed John watching him he sighed and rolled his eyes. Then they both smiled, and John returned to eating. After a few minutes of bantering, Sherlock seemed to have given up on arguing with whoever was on the other line. This was new; Sherlock never gave in to anyone. He was the most stubborn person John knew, yet there he was, telling whoever it was on the phone that he'd meet them somewhere in fifteen minutes.

"Who was that?" John asked as soon as Sherlock pulled his phone away from his ear.

"Lestrade. They need help with a murder case." John put his fork down and began wiping his mouth with a napkin. Then he looked to Sherlock and waited for him to continue. Sherlock looked down at his lap again before speaking.

"Will… Will you come with me?" he asked quietly. John placed the napkin on the table and reached into his pocket, searching for his wallet.

"Of course. Do you want me to pay?"

"What?" Sherlock said, looking up.

"Well, we can't just leave here without paying for the food." A smile slowly crept across Sherlock's face, replacing the slightly surprised expression he'd been wearing as he stared at John.

"I suppose we can't," he said, standing up. "Thanks for paying. I'll go get us a cab." And with that he walked off. John sat at the table for a moment waiting for the waitress to return, but ultimately decided that waiting would take too long, and just threw some money on the table before standing up. As he made his way through the restaurant to the exit he passed their waitress.

"Money's on the table. Keep whatever change as a tip!" he called to her.

"Oh..okay! Thanks!" she called back, waving. "Sorry again about your boyf-"

"Yeah, bye!"

John turned around and rushed out the door. He found Sherlock standing next to a taxicab, holding the door open with a smile on his face. John smiled back and climbed inside. 

"Alright then," Sherlock said when he got in and closed the door. "Let's go."


	7. Seven

About twenty minutes after they'd arrived at the crime scene Sherlock and John were sitting in the back of a cab on their way back to their flat. Turns out the wife was the murderer. Apparently she'd had cold feet for weeks, but had decided to go along with the wedding anyway. Then on their honeymoon she'd planned to start an argument when they got back so he would want to end the marriage. However, the argument had become quite intense and ended in her stabbing him with a steak knife. Then she put him in bed and threw the knife out the window before calling the police. 

Sherlock had also managed to locate the knife in a dark alleyway in less than five minutes. How Sherlock managed to figure all of that out so quickly baffled John. When he expressed his fascination with Sherlock's work the detective had given him a closemouthed smile and went on his way. John always felt self conscious after complimenting Sherlock, yet he found that he was always doing it. He wished he knew if it bothered Sherlock or not, so he would know if he should try to stop or not.

When they made it into the flat, John wished he'd gotten his pasta to go instead of leaving it on the table. He was still a bit peckish, so he went straight to the kitchen when they got inside.

"Goodness John," Sherlock said, appearing beside him while he looked in the fridge, "Is there ever a time when you aren't hungry? You're starting to remind me of my brother." John looked up at Sherlock in time to see him making a face at his mention of Mycroft. He laughed quietly, then closed the door and began searching through cabinets.

Sherlock disappeared into his room, but returned minutes later without his scarf and coat. He went to the living room and sat down on the sofa. John continued his search for snacks for several more minutes before giving up and sitting in his armchair. He picked up his laptop and turned it on.

He felt eyes on him, so he looked up at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I’m doing, I'm turning on my laptop." Sherlock sent John a glare that could curdle milk and he immediately apologized. "I figured I'd work on my blog." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Not that thing," he said, grabbing a newspaper off of a nearby table. He flopped down on the couch and opened the paper. How Sherlock managed to open it so loudly and forcefully without tearing the newspaper John would never know.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound being that of John's typing and Sherlock's page turning. Occasionally a car would pass by and John could hear it through the window, but otherwise it was rather quiet.

John heard a low groaning sound coming from the direction of the couch Sherlock was resting on. He ignored it and continued writing. The groaning continued, and got louder as time went on. John found himself grinding his teeth as his irritation grew.

Sherlock let out a loud sigh, and John slammed his hand on the coffee table.

"Sherlock do you mind?" he yelled. "I'm trying to work here!" Sherlock sat up quickly and glared at John.

"On what? That stupid blog of yours? Don't be absurd that thing isn't the least bit important."

Sherlock got up and stormed off into his room, leaving John by himself. He sat silently, thinking about what Sherlock had said. He knew his blog wasn't all that exciting or interesting. He knew that it wasn't a world famous blog…yet. But, he was actually beginning to enjoy writing it. He'd thought his therapist was crazy when she told him to start it, but now he saw that it was helping him. Having some time to himself to reflect on what has happened in his life was actually beginning to give him some kind of joy. Though, he found that he mostly wrote about Sherlock and their adventures together. The fact that Sherlock himself had told him his blog wasn't important kind of hurt. If the person whom the blog was practically dedicated to didn't care about it, why should he?

John slowly closed his laptop and left it on the table before going into his room for the night.


	8. Eight

The next morning when John woke up the entire flat was silent as usual. Slowly he raised himself up from his bed and stretched, letting a yawn escape from his slightly chapped lips. He swung his feet around to the side of the bed and stood up slowly, still a bit groggy from his long slumber. John shuffled over to retrieve his robe from the wardrobe. He slipped the garment on quickly, then opened his bedroom door and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but at the moment John didn't care. He was still a bit upset with him after his comment about his blog. He knew he shouldn't be so unsettled by a single remark, but for some reason he was.

After pouring himself a cup of coffee John went into the living room and sat down in his chair and tried to relax. He had yet to wake up fully, and hoped the caffeine would help. He sighed and rested his chin in his hand while he stared out the window. Every so often he would raise the mug of coffee up to his lips and take a sip. The hot beverage singed his taste buds, but he didn't care. He picked up a newspaper off of a nearby table and began flipping through the pages. Nothing really caught his eye, so he put it back down and went to go wash out his cup. After that he went to his room to find something to wear, then popped into the bathroom for a quick shower. About a half hour later John was back in his armchair, fully dressed, hair still slightly damp, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.

John heard muffled sounds coming from behind him and turned around. Sherlock had emerged from his room, wearing a house coat and loose pants. He yawned and scratched the back of his head. His eyes landed on John and he gave him a warm smile. John just looked away and took a sip of his coffee. Sherlock stood still in the middle of the room for a bit, then slowly began making his way to the sofa.

"Are you alright John?" Sherlock asked after laying down. John didn't respond, but instead took another sip and attempted to be nonchalant. "John." He sighed.

"I'm fine Sherlock." Sherlock got up from the couch and began to walk into the kitchen, throwing John a sideways glance as he walked by. John ignored the strange feeling he got in his stomach and took another sip of his drink. Sherlock disappeared into his room, and John didn't see him again for another few hours. He spent some time browsing the web and watching TV, but soon became incredibly bored. As mad as he was, John still wished Sherlock would come out of his room. Things were never boring when Sherlock was around.

He got up and went to go wash out his cup, then returned to his chair. His eyes were fixed on the television screen, but the only thing his mind was focused on was what was behind Sherlock's bedroom door. He considered going to it and knocking, asking him to come out, but he knew that was absurd. Still, John found himself looking over in that direction more than at the TV. John felt like he was going crazy sitting in that chair, but he had no idea what to do about it. He just hoped desperately that Sherlock would return. Why, he had no idea. He had no intention of even speaking to him if he did come out, so why did it matter if he was in the living room or not?

After what felt like an eternity of hopeful glances and aggravated sighs from John, Sherlock emerged from his room and began searching for something in the kitchen. John tried not to make it so obvious that he was watching him but failed when Sherlock turned around to face him and caught him staring. He didn't say anything, just turned back around. John blinked a few times before turning his head to look at the TV, hoping Sherlock wouldn't say anything. He didn't, and continued on with his search in silence. John wondered what exactly it was he was looking for; It's not like he was eating much these days. The only times he was in the kitchen was to work on an 'experiment', but lately he hadn't been doing much of that either.

"Sherlock," he called over his shoulder, as he refused to look in his direction for fear of being unable to tear his eyes away. "What are you looking for?"

"Nothing, really," was Sherlock's reply. John heard him rooting around a bit more in the kitchen before Sherlock finally came to sit on the sofa. He stretched out his long legs and leaned his head back. John willed himself a single glance, then turned his head again. Not even a minute had passed before he found his eyes back on Sherlock's face. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was set in a firm, straight line. His curls flopped away from his face, and for some reason John found that he couldn't look away.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened and he stared directly at John. Neither of them said a word, or moved a muscle. They just sat there, in a surprise staring contest. John's palms began to sweat, so he rubbed them on his thighs. Yet, he still didn't look away. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, his eyes squinting just a little, still maintaining eye contact with John.

John pursed his lips and his eyebrows scrunched together, creating a crease between them. When he did this Sherlock looked away, out the window.

"Are you angry with me John?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. John, who up until this point had kept his eyes on Sherlock's face, looked down at his lap and shrugged.

"I…I don't know."

Sherlock's head whirled around and he gazed at John with a look of bewilderment on his face.

"You.. you what?" John sighed and thought about the comment he'd made the previous night. He had yet to apologize, but knowing Sherlock that would never happen. Perhaps that was why he was so angry; Because Sherlock didn't even seem to care that he'd obviously hurt his feelings. He felt a frown forming on his face.

"Actually, yes. I am angry with you." The inner parts of Sherlock's eyebrows turned upwards, and the corners of his mouth did the opposite.

"Why?" His voice was barely above a whisper. He seemed to be in thought for a moment, then he sighed and dipped his head down as if he'd remembered. "Oh, the blog thing yesterday."

"Yes, the blog thing." John said in a mocking tone. Sherlock glared at him, but he didn't care. "Seriously though Sherlock, it's not just the blog. It's…it's just…sometimes it's like you don't care about how your words can affect people. Like you don’t care about anyone or anything but yourself. It gets kind of hard to live with."

"What are you saying?" Sherlock, asked, leaning forward slightly, his facial expression becoming sadder with each passing second that John didn't respond.

"I'm not… saying anything," he finally managed. He refused to look over at Sherlock, for fear that his despondent facial expression would break his heart. He stood up. "Just, that it would be a lot easier if you would..consider someone else's feelings once in a while. And by someone else I mean, mine." Sherlock snorted and waved a hand in the air.

"Oh, feelings. What are they good for?" John's jaw dropped slightly. He was completely offended that Sherlock would say something like that after what he'd just told him. It was like he really didn't care. Maybe it was because he really didn't. John hated how he kept forgetting that Sherlock was Sherlock, and to him feelings and emotions didn't exist, or if they did they were a weakness. It did make him quite hard to be around so much. Sherlock had been right when he'd told Mike Stamford he was a difficult man to find a flat mate for.

"John, what are you thinking?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, as if you need me to tell you. Can't you deduce my thoughts or something?" John asked, waving his hands around in the air like a mad man. Sherlock scrunched his nose up and his eyebrows furrowed together.

"Now John, don’t' be absurd."

"I'm not the absurd one here." Sherlock turned his entire body to face John, who was standing beside his armchair, hands unknowingly clenched into fists. Sherlock noticed it though, and a look of confusion flashed in those multicoloured eyes of his.

"What are you talking about John?" John shut his eyes tightly and took in a deep breath.

"You know what. It's not worth it. It's not like you'll listen to anything I have to say."

"Don’t say that-" 

"No! You never do, Sherlock." And with that John turned and went upstairs to his room. He changed back into something more comfortable to sleep in, shaking his head when he realized he'd gotten all dressed up and spent the entire day in the flat. Well, most of the day. The sun was still out, which meant it was still early, but it had begun to set, which meant it couldn't be too early. As he turned off the lights and settled into bed, he heard the sound of a violin coming from downstairs. He sighed and rolled his eyes. So the violin playing would start early that night. John tried to ignore the song, but as usual he was unable to tune out the music. He laid in bed for hours, watching the sun set through the window and listening to Sherlock play. This song wasn't unlike the others; It was full of despondency and distress, yet it sounded so beautiful John almost didn't mind it. Almost.


	9. Nine

The next few days were sort of a blur for John. He and Sherlock had been avoiding each other like the plague, and whenever they did happen to be in the same room all they did was exchange glares. Over time though, the glares softened into sorrowful glances and apologetic looks. Neither of them knew why they were fighting, but neither man was willing to make the first move towards reconciliation, sothey remained on shaky ground for far much longer than they should've. 

For those days when he and Sherlock weren't speaking, John's existence was a sad one. John suffered in silence while he sat in his room, or sat alone in a pub, sipping a glass of water and watching whatever football game was on. 

One day the weather was nice enough for John to consider having a nice stroll through the park. He'd grabbed his phone and keys from his bedside table and went on his way. Sherlock hadn't been in the living room when he'd passed through. But then again, he hardly ever was when John was home. 

When John's feet hit the pavement he looked up at the bright sky, squinting his eyes against the sun. He turned and looked up at the window he knew looked into their flat, and thought he saw a figure standing there. He didn't look long, but turned around and began walking away. His hands swung stiffly by his sides as he walked, and his gaze stayed forwards and intense. He turned a few corners and came across a small park. He looked around for a bench to sit on and relax, and his eyes caught sight of a familiar face.

"Ollie?" he called out, taking a few steps closer to the man sitting down on a bench a few feet away. "Oliver Wood?" The man had dark brown hair, still shaggy like it had been in his college days. In fact, he looked like he hadn't changed at all since the last time John had seen him. He made a mental note to ask him if he'd found the fountain of youth or something.

He was looking around, most likely for the person who had called his name. When his eyes landed on John a wide grin spread across his face and he stood up.

"John! Get your arse over here!" He said, waving him over. John laughed and walked towards him. They exchanged a handshake, and Oliver offered for John to sit down on the bench beside him.

"How have you been mate?" he asked. John made a face and shrugged.

"I've been alright I suppose. You?"

"I've been pretty good myself." He placed his arm on the back of the bench and let out a breath. He glanced over at Johns' direction before focusing on something in front of him. "What are you doing back here? I thought you joined the army or something. I know you're not old enough to be retired." John sighed and nodded his head.

"Yeah, I was over in Afghanistan not too long ago."He reached up and placed a hand on his left shoulder. "But I...erm, I got shot so they sent me back home."

"Oh, that's too bad."

"Not terribly so. I've been enjoying myself here. I've actually got a nice flatshare over on Baker Street." He chuckled to himself. "It's a lot more cozy than the barracks were." They laughed together, before Oliver spoke.

"Flatshare you say?" John nodded. "Who with?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh I've heard of him. He's some kind of detective right?" John nodded his head again. "Yeah, my sister was telling me about how he cracked some murder case not too long ago." He ran a hand through his messy hair. "She says he's quite the eccentric fellow. Is that true?"

"Very." John said after making a noise that sounded inhuman. His jaw clenched and he felt himself tense up. Oliver must've noticed it too, as the next thing he did was place a hand on John's shoulder and give him a concerned look.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. John said nothing for a moment, then sighed and hung his head.

"Sort of. It's nothing serious. We just...we had a bit of a row a couple days ago." Oliver nodded his head in understanding. His hand fell away from Johns shoulder and rested on his knee.

"I'm sure it'll all turn out fine," he said. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm...I'm not, worried." John stammered. Oliver raised an eyebrow at him and gave him another grin. 

"Sure you aren't." John turned his head and squinted at Oliver.

"I'm not." Oliver just gave him a strange look coupled with a smirk of a smile, then stood up.

"I'm a bit peckish. You want to go grab a bite to eat or something?" John patted his pockets to make sure his wallet was there, then stood up.

"Sure."

____

About a half hour later John found himself sitting inside a small fish and chips shop about a block away from the park, reminiscing with Oliver while nibbling on a serving of chips. They talked about their old shenanigans from college, then moved on to discussing what they had done after college up until this point in their lives. Oliver had left for Ireland after graduating to work for some research program, and had just moved back home a few months ago. John told him about his time in the military, and about his adventures with Sherlock. They'd only been living together for a few months though, so there wasn't much to tell. 

After about an hour Oliver got a call from his sister and had to leave. John figured it was time for him to be getting back to the flat as well. not that he had any reason to rush, but he'd grown a bit tired of the outside world when he was by himself. Loneliness never made anything fun. Oliver gave John his phone number and made him promise to keep in touch. John then gave Oliver his before they parted ways. Oliver was the first to leave the shop, and climbed into the first cab he saw. John watched as the vehicle drove away and disappeared into the traffic, then turned and went on his way. There weren't an cabs nearby, and the walking would do him good.

John had only been walking for a few minutes when out of nowhere it started raining. And this wasn't just a slight drizzle; It was as if they sky had been opened up and all the water from any outside galaxies was now pouring down on London. John had become drenched in less than a minute. He looked around for a cab, and only found one. He called out but the driver went right by him. He probably didn't want John getting the seat wet. He cursed under his breath and picked up his walking speed.

He made it back to the flat in record time, and when he turned around to close the door behind him he saw that the rain had slacked off a bit. He rolled his eyes and groaned at his misfortune, then turned and climbed the stairs. 

When he opened the door Sherlock was laying on the couch. John closed the door and took a few steps closer, so he could see Sherlock's face. His eyes were closed and his breathing was slow. He must've been asleep. John stepped back and turned to go to his room when he heard movement behind him.

"John?" He froze in place, shutting his eyes tightly and hoping that he could turn invisible. "John, what happened to you?" He sighed and turned around to face Sherlock, who was now sitting up straight on the sofa, eyes trained on John. 

"Oh, I went swimming. What do you think happened Sherlock? It's a bloody downpour out there." Sherlock frowned and curled up on the couch again. 

"There's no need to be rude," he mumbled. John rolled his eyes.

"Really Sherlock? I'm the rude one?"

"Right now, yes." John stared at Sherlock with his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Sherlock turned around a bit to look at him, then turned back around. "Close your mouth John. You wouldn't want any bugs to fly in." He paused. "Or should I say raindrops?"

"That's not funny."

"I thought it was at least a little bit humorous." John groaned.

"There you go again with the egocentric thing."

"I'm not being egocentric John I just-"

"Oh shut up Sherlock!" 

Sherlock got up from the couch and came to stand in front of John. It was then that John noticed his messy hair and the bags underneath his eyes. John looked everywhere but into Sherlock's eyes, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He heard Sherlock sigh.

"Look John," he began, "I don't want us to fight." John turned to look at him, and his stomach began twisting itself when he saw Sherlock staring down at him. He managed to put a serious look on his face and stare back at him.

"Yeah, well, you should've thought of that before all," he started waving his hands in the air. "This."

"What is this?" Sherlock asked, waving his hands the same way John had been, his eyebrows raised. John just stared back at him, slowly shaking his head. Eventually he took a step back, and jutted his chin out towards Sherlock in an effort to seem tough.

"You know what. I'm not having this right now. I'm not having any of it."

"Any of what?" Sherlock asked, squinting his eyes and leaning in towards him. John took another step back, and looked away from the hurt look on Sherlock's face. He didn't say anything, and neither did Sherlock. They maintained eye contact as John slowly backed away, then he sighed and looked down before turning and going into his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little note: Yeah, Oliver Wood is a Harry Potter character. No, this Oliver isn't the same guy. He just has the same name. To try and do away with any confusion, he's referred to as 'Ollie' in later chapters. :)


	10. Ten

The smell of smoke woke John from his slumber the following morning. At first it hadn't registered just what the scent was that John had detected, and for a while he remained lying down in bed just trying to wake up. It wasn't until he heard the smoke alarm that he sprang into action, practically jumping out of bed and running downstairs in nothing but a t-shirt and his knickers. He ran into the kitchen to see Sherlock standing in front of the stove, trying to wave away a thick cloud of smoke.

"Sherlock what are you doing?!" he shouted. Almost immediately Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked to John with his eyes ten times the size they usually were. That only lasted for a second before he calmly reached over and turned the stove off.

"I'm making breakfast," he said after clearing his throat, "What does it look like?"

"It looks like you're trying to burn down London." Sherlock made a face, and John took notice of the crease that formed between his eyebrows.

"Oh John, don't be absurd." He waved his hand to the side and accidentally hit the side of the frying pan. There was a sharp intake of breath and Sherlock's hand snapped away from the stove. John sighed and placed a hand on his cheek while he watched Sherlock nurse his slightly burned hand. He held it under the faucet for a bit, then tried to grab the handle of the frying pan. John reached out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Sherlock, you've got to get a pot holder first." He felt like he was taking to a young child. Sherlock nodded his head and began looking around the kitchen. John saw a potholder sitting on the counter right beside Sherlock and grabbed it. He put it on and removed the frying pan from the eye of the stove. He grabbed a dish towel with one hand and spread it out on the counter, then placed the pan on top of it. Then he turned to Sherlock, who was examining his injured hand.

"Put it back under the faucet," John told him, motioning towards the sink.

"It's fine," Sherlock said quietly, still looking down at his hand.

"Listen to me Sherlock. I'm a doctor." Sherlock chuckled, and shook his head.

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine." John sighed, then reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, pulling him towards the sink. When he did so he felt as if a bolt of electricity had shot throughout his entire body, but he managed not to let his sudden discomfort show and turned on the cold water, sticking Sherlock's hand underneath. He looked for where the burn was, and when he found it he turned Sherlock's hand so it was directly under the flow of water.

Sherlock remained quiet the entire time, still looking down. John glanced at the pan on the counter, then looked back to the detective.

"Sherlock," he said, hoping to get his attention. When he still didn't look up he took a step closer, trying not to move the hand that was holding Sherlock's under the water. "Sherlock, why exactly were you trying to make…" he drifted off, trying to look into the pan to see just what it was that Sherlock had been trying to make. "…whatever that was supposed to be." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, which had slumped over while John was talking. "Sherlock?"

"I was making it for you," he said finally, acting as if it had caused him physical pain to admit such a thing. John's eyebrows raised slightly and he felt his jaw drop.

"Me?" Sherlock nodded his head, still looking down. "Why me?"

"You seemed pretty upset with me yesterday…and the day before that…and..well," he sighed and his head dropped even further. "You've been upset with me for a while. I was going to…try and change that." At that moment Sherlock glanced up at John, and John suddenly became incredibly aware that he and Sherlock were still holding hands. He looked to the sink and saw that Sherlock had actually curled his fingers around John's own hand, and that his fingers were wrapped around Sherlock's hand as well. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock turn his head towards the sink as well. John pulled Sherlock' s hand out of the water and looked over it briefly before letting go.

"You should be fine. I've got a fist aid kit that's got some cream and something to wrap your hand with. I'll just..go get it." John hurried out of the kitchen and up to his room. He grabbed the kit and came back downstairs to find Sherlock standing in exactly the same spot he'd been in, holding his hand and staring at it.

"Sherlock, it looks fine," he said when he entered the room. He gave Sherlock a warm smile and held up the kit. "You'll be okay. Now come on, let's get you fixed up." Sherlock came over and sat down in one of the chairs while John pulled out the necessary supplies. "Then you can take me out to get some breakfast that isn't burned to a crisp." Sherlock's eyes met his briefly when he said this, and a small smile appeared on his lips. It was the first time John had seen him smile in a while. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

It only took a few minutes for John to finish getting Sherlock's hand bandaged, and soon he was in his room, getting dressed after having taken a nice hot shower. When he came downstairs dressed in a beige jumper and jeans, he went to his armchair to wait for Sherlock. He emerged from his room about ten minutes after John sat down, dressed in a dark blue shirt and a pair of black jeans.

"Jeans?" John asked, "Really?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, adjusting the collar of his shirt. He looked down at John, then held a hand out towards him. "You're wearing them."

"Yes, but… don't you think it's a bit…casual for you?" Sherlock just shrugged and crossed his arms.

"Well it's not like I'm going on a dinner date or anything." Their eyes met, and Sherlock held John captive with his mesmerizing eyes for a few moments before he looked away. John cleared his throat and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

"Uh, yes, right," he said, standing up. "Sorry."

"No need to for you to apologize John," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat and scarf from off the sofa. He put the garments on and flashed John a brilliant smile. "I'm the one that's apologizing here." John chuckled, then followed Sherlock out the door, down the stairs, and out of the flat. Sherlock hailed them a cab and they climbed in.

"Where to?" Sherlock asked John when he closed the door.

"Surprise me," John told him, unable to contain the sudden smile that came across his face. Sherlock thought for a moment, then told the cabbie an address. It was somewhere in central London, but that was all John knew.

"So where are we going?" he asked.

"You said you wanted it to be a surprise," was Sherlock's reply. John saw the smirk that had formed on his face, and rolled his eyes. He looked out the window at the traffic and people on the pavement, then turned to look at Sherlock. Much to his surprise, Sherlock was looking at him too. Though, when John's eyes met Sherlock's he cast them downward. John turned and looked back out the window.

"Can you give me a hint?"

"It's in London." John turned back around to glare at Sherlock, who gave him the biggest, fakest smile he could muster, and the two shared a laugh.

Soon the cab came to a stop, and they got out. John looked around for any sign of a restaurant, but the only thing he saw that sold food was an ice cream shoppe. He turned to Sherlock , who had just finished paying the cabbie and had gotten out of the cab.

"Um, Sherlock? Are we having ice cream for breakfast?"

"What?" Sherlock began looking around, and let out an aggravated sigh. "This is wrong. I didn't tell him to bring us here."

"Why didn't you say something while we were on our way here? Didn't you notice when he started to turn on the wrong streets?" Sherlock clasped his hands together behind his back and looked down at the pavement.

"…I wasn't paying attention to the streets outside."

"Oh, you weren't? What were you paying attention to then? There's not really much to look at inside a cab." Sherlock bit his bottom lip and looked up, past John's head. Then he began looking around them. He jerked his head to the left.

"It's not too far from here. Let's go." John bowed slightly and held his hand out in front of him, and Sherlock stared at it like he'd never seen such a thing before. John cleared his throat and Sherlock's gaze rose to meet his own. John's lips curved slightly as he offered Sherlock a friendly smile.

"After you."


	11. Eleven

It had only taken them a few minutes to find the restaurant Sherlock had been planning to take John to. It was a small crêpe restaurant called 'Carrie's Crêpes' wedged in between a shoe store and a consignment shop.

"Crêpes?" John asked when Sherlock held the door open for him. There was a smile on Sherlock's face, but a bit of uncertainty in his eyes when he replied.

"Problem?" John stared inside at the empty room and shook his head.

"No. No problem at all." John walked inside, followed closely by Sherlock, and sat down. The interior of the shop could be described as 'rustic', with wooden chairs and tables. Vintage photographs of old cars and movie stars hung on the walls. There were big, round, candle chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The simple lighting was warm and inviting, and gave the room a gentle orange glow. John looked around a bit while Sherlock stood beside him with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Where would you like to sit?" John took a moment longer to decide on a spot, then went towards a table right next to a window. It was rather nice outside, and he wanted to be able to look out and enjoy it. Sherlock sat across from him once he removed his coat and scarf, and they both reached for the menus on the far side of the table at the same time. Their hands briefly touched, and John felt himself flinch at the contact. Sherlock seemed to have jumped as well, and when John looked up at him he was using his other hand to smooth down the bandage John had placed.

"Sorry," he mumbled, looking down as he reached for a menu.

"John I told you, no apologizing." John sighed and looked up at Sherlock, who was offering him a closed mouth smile.

"Right," he said, nodding, "Sorry." Sherlock cleared his throat, and John chuckled. He looked down at the menu and began looking over his options. Sherlock picked up a menu and looked over it as well.

"Hello there boys," came a voice that startled John. "What can I get you today?" John looked to Sherlock, who was staring at him with his eyebrows raised. He turned to the young woman and gave her a small smile.

"We're still deciding, thanks."

"Okay, just let me know when you're ready to order and I'll be back."

"Thank you,"

The woman darted off to parts unknown, leaving John and Sherlock alone once again. Sherlock pulled out his phone and began tapping away.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Turning my phone on silent." He glanced up at John briefly while talking. "I don't want anything to interrupt."

"Interrupt what?"

"Breakfast."

John laughed and shook his head, causing Sherlock to look up. "What?"

"What if Lestrade calls?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved his hand in the air.

"He'll have to wait."

"Mycroft?"

"John now you're just being absurd." He placed his phone inside his coat pocket and pushed the garment to the side. He folded his hands on the tabletop and stared directly at John. "Right now, you have my complete and undivided attention."

"Sherlock I'm flattered."

"You should be." With that Sherlock sent John a playful smirk, and John's stomach began to do flip flops. He figured he was just hungry, since he had skipped supper the previous evening. He looked back to the menu. Sherlock placed his down on the table, and John looked over the top of his at him.

"You already know what you're getting?"

"I'm not hungry. I'll just have a glass of water or something." John sighed and let the menu fall to the table. Sherlock's eyes grew slightly in size and he stared at John with a confused expression.

"Sherlock, are you really not going to eat anything?" The detective shook his head and looked down like an ashamed puppy. "Look at me Sherlock." He shook his head like a stubborn five year old would when his parents told him to put his toys away. "Sherlock."

"What?" He mumbled, turning his head to the side, still looking down.

"Look. At. Me."

Slowly Sherlock's head raised, and his eyes met John's. For a moment John was too lost in Sherlock's eyes to form a complete sentence. His mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. Eventually he just sighed and blinked at Sherlock.

"Eat something," he said, "For me." Sherlock held his gaze for wheat seemed like an eternity without saying anything. For some reason John's face became incredibly hot, and he felt the incredible urge to look away. However, he kept his eyes on Sherlock's and tried to keep his gaze intense. After another long while Sherlock sighed and nodded his head. Without breaking eye contact he reached for his menu and held it up.

"Alright," he said, "For you."

John smiled at him, then looked down at the laminated piece of paper he was holding. Soon he had made his decision, so he placed the menu on the table and rested his chin in his hand while he looked to Sherlock. He watched as his eyes moved back and forth, scanning over the many different types of crêpes.

"My god," he said after a short while, "how many things can you stuff inside a thin rolled up sheet of flour?" At that point he looked up at John, and the expression on his face was too much for him to handle. He started laughing uncontrollably, but covered his smile with his hand when he noticed the glare he was receiving from Sherlock.

"Have you made a decision yet?"

"How can I?" Sherlock asked, looking back down at the menu. His eyes flicked back up to John's seconds later. "Have you?" John nodded his head and smiled smugly. "What are you getting?"

"A crêpe." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, but eventually his frown turned upside down and the two were grinning at each other like a couple of idiots. Sherlock waved the waitress over and the two of them placed their orders. When she left, Sherlock grabbed the menu from John's hands and placed it on the table on top of where his sat. Then he interlocked his fingers and rested his chin on the 'bridge' he formed with his hands once he placed his elbows on top of the table. John placed his hands in his lap and leaned back in his seat, staring at Sherlock. His mouth formed a straight line and his eyebrows went up slightly.

"So," Sherlock said, looking down and to the side briefly before looking back up at John. "Do you forgive me yet?" John reached up and scratched the back of his head before answering.

"Ask me again after we get our food." Sherlock's eyes narrowed at John, but there was a smile on his lips. John just stared back, unsure of what to say. For some reason all of a sudden he'd become nervous and fidgety. Sherlock seemed to notice from the look he gave John while he shifted around in his seat, but said nothing and instead began tracing his finger in the grooves between the wooden planks of the tabletop.

"So, what exactly was it that you were you trying to make this morning?" Sherlock sucked in a breath before he began speaking.

"Believe it or not… crêpes."

"In a frying pan?" John asked, trying not to laugh. "Don't you know you need some kind of special…crêpe maker?"

"Well it's not like we have one just sitting around in the flat," Sherlock said rather defensively, his jaw clenching as he spoke.

"So why would you try to make crêpes if you knew you didn't have the proper equipment?"

"Does it matter?" Sherlock asked, his face now contorted into a grimace. "I was trying to do a nice thing. Isn't it the thought that counts?"

"Not when that thought nearly burns down our flat," John shot back, looking down at the table. When he looked up and saw the hurt look on Sherlock's face he sighed. "Sorry." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back.

"John I told you, no apologizing."

"But I've hurt your feelings, haven't I?" Sherlock's nose scrunched up and he made a strange face.

"Oh please," he said, rolling his eyes. "Don't be absurd."

"Oh, right. Feelings," John said, nodding his head, "You don't have them. Got it."

"That's not what I meant, John." John was surprised by the sudden change in Sherlock's tone of voice. It had gone from harsh and angry to a gentle murmur. John's eyes slowly rose up to meet Sherlock's, and he felt an odd sensation in his stomach. He tried swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, but due to his incredibly dry mouth the task proved to be impossible. He looked in the direction of the kitchen, hoping their waitress would return with drinks.

Almost as if she'd heard John's telepathic call of distress, the waitress appeared at their table in a matter of seconds, with two glasses of water.

"I just realized I hadn't given you guys drinks yet. I'm terribly sorry. Here, these are on the house. Your crepes should be right out. I'll be back soon."

"Oh boy, free water," Sherlock said sarcastically when she had barely gotten out of ear shot. John hid his smile with his fist and rolled his eyes playfully. Then he remembered how dry his mouth and throat were and grabbed his glass. After emptying it in record time he set the glass back on the table and looked up at Sherlock, who was watching him with an amused smile on his face. He just shrugged and looked away shyly, not understanding why he felt the need to do so.

Their waitress returned, and served them their crêpes. John grabbed a fork and took a bite of his 'Strawberry Delight' crêpe, which was basically a crêpe filled with strawberry jam and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Much to his delight he found it to be quite tasty, and smiled at Sherlock while he chewed.

"I forgive you," he said once he swallowed. Sherlock breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief, then picked up his own fork. John watched intently as Sherlock cut off an incredibly small piece of his 'Chocolate Dream', and placed the fork in his mouth. He chewed painstakingly slow, and finally swallowed. He gave John a tight-lipped smile.

"Happy?" he asked after taking a few more bites. John nodded his head and smiled.

"Yes. Thank you." Sherlock made a confused face, then shrugged and looked down.

"You're welcome."

______________________________________

Sherlock and John spent the next hour sitting in that crêpe shop. They talked about everything from TV shows they'd watched to the possibility of them going to the zoo next weekend. It was almost as if they were back on that beach in Fiji, walking in the sand and discussing trivial aspects of their lives.

Somehow Sherlock had managed to get Nutella on his chin, and after trying for a decent amount of time to direct Sherlock's hand to where he needed, to wipe, John had reached over with a napkin and fixed the problem himself. Their eyes had met when he did this, and the uncomfortable feeling that was starting to become a common thing for John arose. However, that was the only uncomfortable thing about their time in the restaurant. If asked John wouldn't admit it, but when it came time to pay the bill and leave he was a bit sad to go.

Sherlock was tying his scarf around his neck when the waitress returned with his card. She gave them both a friendly smile, but didn't leave.

"I just wanted to say… and I know this might sound a bit weird but, I was actually watching you guys from my post over there," she gestured over her shoulder with her thumb, "and I must say you two are the cutest couple I've ever seen." John looked over at Sherlock, who was acting as if he hadn't even heard her comment, then back to the young woman standing in front of him.

"We're not a couple." She gave him a knowing look and placed her hands on her hips.

"Yeah, right. And I'm the president of the United States." She gave them one last smile before she turned and walked away, leaving the two of them standing alone. Sherlock held the door open for John as they went out, but before walking outside John turned around to see the waitress waving at him with a smile on her face as she sat at one of the tables. He sighed and went outside.

"How come you never say anything?" John asked Sherlock while they strolled through the streets of London. "When people assume…" he trailed off, and Sherlock just shrugged. "Does it not bother you?"

"No."

"Why not?" Sherlock looked down at his feet while he walked, and after a short while he sighed while his shoulders slumped.

"Because I know the truth." 

John paused in his steps when Sherlock said this, but the detective kept walking. John jogged a bit to catch up with him, and kept his head down like Sherlock's was. He thought about what he'd said, and about everything that had happened in the past few months. He thought about what Sherlock said in the hotel room in Fiji, and about what almost happened in their kitchen not too long ago. Without realizing it, John reached up to run his fingers across his lips, and glanced over at Sherlock, whose head was turned away from John. All he could see were his dark curls. When John realized what he was doing with his hand he immediately stuffed both hands inside his pockets. So, Sherlock didn't mind because he 'knew the truth'. Did that mean that John did mind…because he wasn't so sure of what that truth was? He kept his head down and kept walking.


	12. Twelve

For the next week or so, John and Sherlock's days were rather uneventful. They worked on cases by day and in the evenings they drank tea and played Cluedo. Sherlock had eaten twice since that morning at the crêpe shop, and the violin playing had stopped. Though John had to admit he sort of missed listening to the sound of Sherlock's violin as he fell asleep at night, he was glad that Sherlock seemed to be doing better. It was nice to be able to have a civil conversation with Sherlock without it turning into an argument or with one of them storming off into his room to sulk.

One lazy Sunday morning the two were relaxing in the living room watching some detective show and drinking freshly made tea when Sherlock's phone began ringing. John glanced over at Sherlock, who was laying on the sofa with his eyes closed.

"Sherlock, your phone."

"I can hear it John," he said, still not moving a muscle. John looked down at the phone, which was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, then back up at Sherlock.

"Are you going to answer it?" Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and reached down to grab his phone. Without looking to see who had called he held the device to his hear and began speaking.

"Sherlock Holmes." There was a pause while he listened to the person on the other end. He sighed again and sat up. "Alright, we’ll be there shortly." He hung up the phone and turned to John. "Lestrade. Wants us to come by his office for something."

"Is it relating to that case with the robbery at the jewelers?" Sherlock sat up and shrugged.

"Perhaps." John nodded, then bent over and began lacing up his shoes. Sherlock stood and went to the window. He looked outside for a bit before turning to go into his room. He came out less than a minute later wearing his signature scarf and coat, and the two of them left the flat.

Soon they were walking through the door of Lestrade's office to see him sitting down with his feet propped up on his desk. When he saw Sherlock and John walk in he greeted them with a warm smile and offered the bag of crisps he was eating to them. They both declined, and he placed the bag on his desk while standing.

"Hello Sherlock, John," he said, clasping his hands together and walking towards them. John gave him a tight lipped smile, and Sherlock's face remained emotionless. "I'm glad you could make it."

"Just tell me why you called us in," Sherlock said, his tone completely serious. Lestrade nodded his head, then reached behind him and grabbed a file from his desk. He flipped it open and began talking while his eyes skimmed over the papers it contained.

"Well it seems we've gotten a new lead on the case with the jeweler. Apparently there was a witness to the robbery. A man named Matthew Greene. He lives not too far from here. I figured you'd like to help with the questioning." He closed the file and held it out towards Sherlock. "What do you think?" Sherlock stood motionless for a moment, staring down at the folder. After a few seconds had passed the corners of his mouth twitched upwards and he grabbed it from Lestrade's hands.

"What's the address?" He asked after flipping through several pages.

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer but was cut off when Sergeant Donovan came into the room with a distressed look on her face.

"Sir, we've just got a call and I think you should know-"

"Not now Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade said, waving her away, "We're busy."

"But sir, we've got a bit of a problem," she said, her eyes conveying a sense of urgency that didn't go undetected by anyone in the room. "Matthew Greene has just been taken to the hospital."

_____________________________

The ever present beeping of the heart rate monitor was nearly driving John insane, though no one else in the room seemed to even notice it. Perhaps it was because everyone's main focus was on the young man laying comatose in the hospital bed beside the monitor. He was covered in bruises from head to toe, and both of his eyes were swollen shut. It wasn't like they would be open anyway; The man was in a coma. The only sign of life was the steady rising and falling of Matthew's chest.

A young woman who appeared to be no older than twenty was standing beside the bed, one hand resting on top of Matthew's, the other one stroking his dark brown hair. Her dark blue eyes were full of tears, but whenever she spoke to one of the many police officers who were trying to get information out of her, she smiled. John and Sherlock stood to the side and waited until everyone else in the room had left before approaching her. Still, it was only Sherlock who spoke.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes." he said, offering her a small smile.

"Lucy Parker." She said, giving Sherlock a quick nod of the head. She reached up and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear before speaking again. "Why aren't you dressed like the other officers?" Sherlock shrugged and shook his head.

"Maybe because I'm not an officer."

"Then what are you doing in here?"

"Helping... With the case that is. And if you don't mind I'd like to ask a few questions." Lucy nodded her head, giving Sherlock permission to begin. "First of all I want to say I'm so sorry about your…" he drifted off, squinting at her slightly, "…boyfriend?" The young woman laughed and shook her head.

"Oh, no," she said, "He's not my boyfriend."

"So he's your husband then?" Her eyebrows shot up and she stared at him in disbelief.

"What? No. We're not… we're not romantically involved in any way. I'm just a friend." Her gaze fell to the floor when she said this, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"I see," he said, and John could tell what was coming next. He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, hoping to deter him from spelling out the young woman's love life. Sherlock merely glanced down at him before turning to face her once more.

"How long did you two live together?" he asked her. She looked up at him with surprised evident on her face.

"How did you know-" she stopped mid sentence and shrugged. "Only about eight months."

"And how long have you loved him?" Lucy's eyes grew to nearly the size of golf balls and her jaw dropped. She stared at an expectant Sherlock for a few moments before taking in a shaky breath and biting her bottom lip.

"Three years." Even Sherlock seemed surprised by her answer.

"Three years?" he asked, clearly baffled. She looked down and nodded her head. "If you admit to being in love with him, and have been for so long, why say you're not romantically involved with him? Why would you lie?"

"I'm not lying," she said, "We're just friends." She looked up and saw the strange look she was receiving from both John and Sherlock, and decided to clarify. "He doesn't know."

Sherlock's expression immediately softened. When she saw this she gave him a small smile and chuckled.

"I know what you're thinking, about how pathetic I must sound to be in love with someone for years and never tell them." She shrugged. "I just never got the courage to tell him. There was always that doubt…" her eyes drifted over to where Matthew lay. "Now I may never get the chance to tell him how I feel." She sniffed. "To find out if he felt the same…" Suddenly her expression changed to defensive and confused.

"Wait, why am I telling you guys this?" The next expression to cross her face was one of worry. "Please don't say anything to anyone. Please?"

"You have my word," Sherlock said softly. John remembered his hand was still on Sherlock's shoulder, and slowly removed it, placing his hand inside his trouser pocket. He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring off into space with a doleful look on his face. John cleared his throat, and that seemed to bring him back down to Earth. He shook his head and blinked a few times before he returned back to normal. He asked Lucy a few more questions about what had happened leading up to Matthew's hospitalization, and several minutes later he and John were in the lobby while Sherlock talked with Lestrade and a few other people John had never seen before.

He left in search of a bathroom, and though had only been gone for a few minutes when he returned to the lobby Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He did find Lestrade, however, and asked him if he knew where Sherlock had run off to. He was advised to check the gift shop or Matthew's room. John decided to skip the gift shop and went straight to room 522.

He looked through the glass window in the door and saw Sherlock standing with Lucy at Matthew's beside. He stood outside the door for a moment debating whether or not to go in, but before he could decide he was spotted by Sherlock. He turned to Lucy, most likely saying goodbye, then left the room. He smiled down at John after closing the door behind him.

"What are you so happy about?" John asked, smiling back.

"Oh nothing," Sherlock said, pulling out his phone. "Just...." He didn't finish his sentence, most likely because he had become so wrapped up in whatever it was he was doing on his phone.

"Did you get some good answers?" John asked, trying to peer over at Sherlock's phone. He tilted the screen away from John and smirked. 

"Oh, yes."


	13. Thirteen

John Watson had never been scared of the dark, so when he found himself hunkered down in the back seat of a 1972 Jensen Interceptor he was surprisingly calm, despite the fact that the sun was no longer in the sky, and he and Sherlock were sitting in an abandoned car outside an abandoned warehouse where Sherlock believed the stolen jewels had been stashed.

How Sherlock had managed to convince John to come along with him on his 'stakeout', he wasn't sure. However, when John actually thought about it he realized all Sherlock had done was ask him to come along, and he'd said yes. A new question then came into his mind: why did he say yes? Was it because John didn't want to be left alone at the flat, or did he genuinely want to help with the case? John had been asking himself that for a while now. Nowadays he wasn't sure if he was helping with the cases because he wanted to help or because he just wanted to spend time with Sherlock.

"What exactly am I looking for again?" he called to Sherlock, who was sitting in the passenger seat, staring out the window. His brow furrowed and he frowned. John figured it was because it was the third time he'd asked Sherlock that question.

"We're waiting to see if anyone goes into or comes out of that warehouse. How many times do I have to tell you?" John sighed and nodded his head. For some reason he found that after a while he would just forget why they were even out there. He blamed it on the fact that he was incredibly tired and as a result less focused. He clasped his hands together and rested them in his lap.

"Well, you know, third time's the charm." He looked towards Sherlock, and though only parts of his face were illuminated by the moonlight, he could still see the smile on Sherlock's lips. John smiled as well, then turned to look out the window. He began to wish that he had brought a coat with him when they left the flat that morning. He had been under the assumption that he wouldn't be needing it, or that he could at least stop by to get it before they came here. He'd asked Sherlock but they had come straight to the warehouse from the hospital.

His stomach growled, and he wrapped his arms around himself, in an effort to quiet his stomach and to keep himself warm. He hoped they found whatever it was they were looking for, so that if he got sick it would be worth it.

"Are you hungry John?" Sherlock asked. John didn't respond, as he was a bit embarrassed that Sherlock had heard. "If so, I've got a few chocolate bars and some crisps that I bought from the hospital gift shop."

"So that's why you went there?" John asked, leaning forward and putting his face in between the driver and passenger's seat. Sherlock turned away from the window to give John an inquisitive look.

"What are you talking about?"

"When I asked Lestrade where you'd gone, he said to check the gift shop." Sherlock raised his eyebrows and nodded his head slowly.

"Yeah, I figured if we were out here for too long you'd get hungry, so I got some snacks." Sherlock reached into his coat pockets and held up a package of crisps and a chocolate bar. John took the crisps and opened them with a smile on his face. He looked back up to Sherlock while he chewed.

"Thank you Sherlock," John said, turning to him and offering a smile. "That's really considerate." Sherlock's eyes briefly glanced in John's direction, then he looked back out of the window.

"You're welcome."

John looked down at the package of crisps he was holding, and felt a smile come across his face when he noticed that Sherlock had bought his favorite brand.

"How did you know to get these?" he asked. Sherlock waved his hand in the air.

"Lucky guess, I suppose."

"Oh come on Sherlock, you never guess."

Sherlock kept his focus on the window for a moment longer before he turned to look at John, one side of his mouth turned upwards to form a lopsided grin.

"Yeah, okay," he said.

"I must say I'm flattered," John managed to say around a mouthful of crisps, "that you've got space in that crazy, brilliant mind of yours to remember my favorite brand of crisps."

"Oh, not just that John," Sherlock said, turning to look out the window again. "I've made space to remember almost everything about you, right down to how you like your tea, what your favorite TV shows are, what size jumper you wear..." He paused to take in a breath. "The list goes on and on."John had no idea what to say. He fumbled around with his words for a moment before he was able to form a coherent sentence.

"I'm surprised Sherlock. I really am. All that space you could fill with information relevant to your work and you're using it to remember pointless details about me."

"It's not pointless."

"I mean, I could understand my birthday and the like, but my jumper size? Doesn't that just take up unnecessary space?"

"Don't be silly John," Sherlock turned away from the window and gave him a small smile. "There's always room for you."

Once again John was speechless. He stared at Sherlock with his mouth open for far too long before he decided to stuff his mouth with crisps and avoid having to talk for a moment longer. Sherlock just laughed and looked back out the window. John finished his snack and tossed the package to somewhere in the car.

"Any chance you bought a blanket at that gift shop?" John asked as he wrapped his arms around himself again

"No," Sherlock said quietly. After a brief moment had passed Sherlock's head spun around and he squinted at John,. "Why, are you cold?" John looked down at his lap and nodded, though he knew Sherlock couldn't see.

"A bit, yeah. But I'll be fine."

John heard movement in the front seat, and when it stopped John looked up to see Sherlock's coat in front of his face.

"Oh, no Sherlock. I can't."

"Take it."

John sat still for a moment longer, then sighed and reached up to grab the coat. Sherlock let go of the garment and it fell into John's lap. With shaking hands he picked up the coat and spread it out like a blanket on top of himself. He felt bad for having taken Sherlock's coat, but the bad feeling faded more and more the warmer he got.

The coat smelled like Sherlock. Though John didn't exactly know how to describe the scent, he knew he liked it. It comforted him, and relaxed him to the point where he started to nod off. If it weren't for the sound of Sherlock constantly rubbing his hands together and shifting in his seat, John would've fallen asleep right then and there.

After lying there for several minutes, barely awake and listening to the sounds of Sherlock trying to stay warm, John sat up and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Would you like your coat back?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head and waved him away.

"No, no. You keep it."

"But Sherlock it's freezing-"

"I'm fine John." John peeled the coat away from himself, shivering slightly when the cold air hit him. He tried to give it to Sherlock but he refused.

"Come on, you'll freeze."

"I'd rather it be me than you."

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock, just take your coat back!"

"No!"

John let out a long, aggravated sigh and ran his hands over his face.

"How about we share it?" The words had left John's mouth before he had time to think about what he was saying.

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning around in the seat to peer at John over the headrest. John looked down at the coat in his lap and shrugged.

"I mean, you can see fine from this window...and it's a decently sized coat..." he trailed off, and kept looking down. Soon John heard movement in front of him, and when he looked up he saw Sherlock pulling the front seat up, creating more space in the back of the car. Then he climbed into the back and settled down next to John. The entire left side of John's body was pressed against Sherlock, and John was painfully aware of this fact. Sherlock reached over John in an effort to cover John more with the coat, and John felt his face heat up. He knew the extra warmth he felt wasn't due to their makeshift blanket, but he wasn't sure as to what caused it.

"How can you even see out the window when you're leaning against the door like that?" He asked Sherlock, who was resting his head against the car door.

"I can't, but I can hear just fine." John nodded, then let his head fall back as well. He tried to get comfortable, but found that he couldn't due to the fact that Sherlock's elbow was jabbing him in the side.

"Would you quit all that moving?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry. Just...trying to get comfortable."

"Oh. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, your elbow It's kind of..."

"Oh, sorry!"

Sherlock tried to move his arm, and John tried to move away, but they found it was impossible to do either and keep the coat covering both of them. After a few minutes of awkward shuffling, they both sighed and stopped moving. John looked up at Sherlock with a smile on his face.

"I guess this is as good as it gets, huh?" Sherlock shrugged and tilted his head to the left.

"Well..."

"What?"

"I imagine there is a way for us to be both comfortable and warm."

"Alright then."

"But..." Sherlock turned away and didn't continue. John nudged him in the side with his elbow.

"Alright now," he said, "Out with it."

"Well..." Sherlock looked down at him, and when John met his gaze, he knew what Sherlock was suggesting. He simply nodded his head, and Sherlock moved his arm so that it was resting on John's shoulders. To John's surprise the gesture didn't make John as uncomfortable as he thought he would be.

"Is this weird for you?" Sherlock asked, looking down at John. John looked up at him and found that despite the fact that Sherlock's face was barely an inch away from his, he was able to maintain eye contact with him and even smile as he answered.

"Surprisingly, no."

The right corner of Sherlock's lips turned upwards, and John found himself smiling as well. John cleared his throat and diverted his eyes away from Sherlock's face.

"I'm just glad there's no one here to see us." When Sherlock didn't reply, John looked up and saw that his eyes were downcast and his bow shaped lips were forming a frown.

"You always talk like... Like you can't stand the thought of..." He trailed off, and John couldn't ignore the sad tone of his voice, but luckily it didn't last long. Suddenly his frown was replaced by a smirk and his tone was more joking than anything. "You'd be lucky to have me as a-"

"Yeah, I'm sure I would be." They both chuckled, then settled into a comfortable silence. After a while John's stomach growled again, and he asked Sherlock if he could have the chocolate bar. Sherlock told him they were in one of the coat pockets, and began looking for it. While he did so, Sherlock's hand brushed over a sensitive area between John's legs and he took in a sharp breath. His face instantly became ten times hotter than before, and he was suddenly very glad it was dark so Sherlock wouldn't see how undoubtedly red his face was.

"I- I don't think that's what you're looking for," he said breathlessly. Sherlock stopped searching for a moment, and smirked at John.

"Maybe it was." He winked, then finally pulled out the chocolate bar he'd been searching for. He handed it to John, who took it without saying another word. He had no idea what to say at the moment, so he stuffed his mouth with the sugary goodness and remained quiet even after he had finished the chocolate bar. They didn't speak much after that, except for the occasional 'are you okay?' coming from Sherlock. Each time John had simply nodded his head, unable to trust his voice.

John hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep until he was opening his eyes and squinting against the sun that was coming in through the car windows. He sat with his eyes half open for a short while before he noticed that his head was resting on something hard.

"Good morning John."

He lifted his head and looked to the left and saw Sherlock sitting beside him. His face was completely emotionless, and his eyes remained looking forward, but when he had spoken there was a softness to his voice that John wasn't expecting from Sherlock.

"Good morning," he managed, his voice still a bit raspy from his slumber. He started to stretch, but then he remembered the position he and Sherlock were in and stopped. He could feel Sherlock's hand resting on his shoulder in exactly the same place it had been before John had fallen asleep. He found this to be a bit weird, as it would be impossible for Sherlock to keep his hand perfectly still while sleeping. From what he remembered from Fiji Sherlock was not a calm sleeper.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"No." John sighed.

"Sherlock..."

"Well, someone had to stay awake and keep an ear out for the robbers."

"Right," John said, nodding his head. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Sherlock, said, looking down at John and smiling. "And might I say..." his smile turned into a smirk, "You look absolutely adorable when you sleep." John looked up at Sherlock with his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth hanging open. However, when his eyes met Sherlock's his face relaxed and he smiled. Sherlock was smiling as well, but after a few moments the smile fell and his gaze softened.

"John, I-"

"Hold on a minute," John said, holding up a hand and silencing Sherlock. He kept quiet and listened intently to what he thought was the sound of crunching leaves.

"But John-"

"Not now Sherlock," he hissed, "I think I hear something."

"But-"

"Oh, can't it wait?" John asked, glaring at Sherlock. A look of shock came across Sherlock's face before a wave of pain, and finally no emotion shone in his eyes. He removed his arm from around John's shoulders and looked down. John slowly turned around and raised up enough to peer through the window. Though it was hard to see much in the dim light so early in the morning, John could see a figure headed in the direction of the warehouse.

"Sherlock, look at this." When Sherlock didn't move John grabbed his arm and pulled him up to look out the window. "Over there, by the door. Doesn't that look like the guy who manages the bookstore across the street from the jewelers?"

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled, "yes it does."

Sherlock and John watched from the car as he entered the warehouse, then when the door shut behind him, they sprang into action.


	14. Fourteen

It didn't take long for John and Sherlock to apprehend the suspect, and once the police arrived he'd confessed almost immediately. Everyone had thought the case was closed until the bookstore manager told the police that there had been another person involved: an employee at the jewelry store. The police could handle that on their own though, so Sherlock and John were free to go after Sherlock answered a few questions for the police records.

The first thing John had done when he got inside the flat was take a long hot shower. When he came out of the bathroom into the living room Sherlock was sitting at the table looking at something on his phone. He sat down across from Sherlock and picked up the newspaper that was sitting in front of him. He let out a breath and stretched his legs out underneath the table in an effort to relax, and accidentally stepped on Sherlock's sock covered foot.

"Sorry," he said quietly. Sherlock's only response was to glance up at John briefly before returning his attention back to his phone. However, after a few minutes had passed, John felt something pressing against the side of his foot. He looked underneath the table and saw that Sherlock had placed his foot right next to John's. John kept his head turned downward, but lifted his gaze to look at Sherlock's face. He nudged Sherlock's foot and saw the hint of a smile on Sherlock's face that appeared before he placed his foot on top of John's. John placed the foot that wasn't trapped on top of Sherlock's foot, and soon the two of them were giggling like idiots and an all-out game of footsie had erupted.

Who knows how long they would've continued kicking at each other underneath the table if Sherlock hadn't received a call from St. Bart's requesting his presence at Matthew Greene's room. He'd asked John to come along, and of course John said yes. Mere minutes later the two were sitting in the back of a cab on their way to the hospital. John tried to keep his eyes staring out the window, but he found that he kept looking over at Sherlock for the entire duration of the cab ride.

When they finally made it to St. Bart's and got out the car, John remembered something he'd been meaning to ask Sherlock about.

"Um, Sherlock?" he asked as they made their way through the hallways, "When we were sitting in the car, before the robber showed up…you were saying something."

"Was I?" Sherlock said, looking down and taking off the gloves he was wearing. " I don't remember."

"Yeah, right," John said, rolling his eyes. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk about?" Sherlock bit his bottom lip and looked down at the floor, then up at the ceiling and anywhere but at John.

"Oh, nothing, just…" Sherlock didn't continue with his sentence, but instead trailed off and stared forward, his eyes unblinking and brow furrowed.

"Sherlock what's wrong?" When Sherlock didn’t respond John turned his head and tried to figure out what Sherlock was staring at, and that was when he saw Lucy. She was standing just outside of Matthew's room at the end of the hall, her hands covering her face and her shoulders shaking slightly. Sherlock's walking speed increased until he was at a slow jog, though John had to run to keep up with him. When they reached where Lucy was standing, she removed her hands from her face and looked up. When John saw the tears that were streaming down her cheeks and the look of sadness and despair in her eyes, he knew the following conversation would not be a good one.

"He's…he's gone," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. John's jaw dropped, but Sherlock's face was emotionless. Lucy wiped away a few tears and shrugged. "Well, not really, but he might as well be." John didn't understand what she was saying, and his confusion must've been evident on his face. Lucy took in a deep breath and sighed.

"When he first got here… When they first checked him in, the doctors all told me there was a chance he could make it. That he could survive." The reached up to wipe away more tears as she continued talking. "But now, now they say he's too far gone. He's one hundred percent dependent on life support now." She continued her attempt to rid her face of any tears, but each time she wiped her eyes new tears took the place of the ones that had been wiped away. Her head dropped and her shoulders slumped, and John suddenly became very uncomfortable. He wasn't the best when it came to comforting others or handling grief, so he knew he was pretty much useless here.

He felt a vibration in his pocket, and pulled out his phone to see that his friend Oliver was calling. He let out a sigh of relief before excusing himself and taking the call.

"Hello Ollie," he said, trying to sound cheerful, yet not too cheerful considering the fact that Sherlock and Lucy weren't standing too far away and might be able to hear him.

"John! How are ya mate?" His words were a bit slurred, which confused John. Who could be drunk this early in the day. Then again, when John thought back to his days as a university student he remembered many mid-day calls he'd received from a drunken Ollie.

"I'm alright, and you?"

"I'm doing great." There was a brief pause before he continued. "Even though this is the first time we've spoken since I saw you at the park. What's up with that John? Why haven't you called?" John sighed and shrugged, mentally kicking himself because he knew Ollie couldn't see.

"I don't know, I've just been…busy I guess."

"Yeah, I bet you and Sherlock are pretty busy fellas right?" John squinted and furrowed his brows, his eyes glancing over in Sherlock and Lucy's direction. They were still standing in the hallway, and Lucy appeared to be talking to Sherlock about something. Sherlock looked over at John and mouthed something, but John couldn't read his lips. He mouthed 'what', but Sherlock just waved his hand in the air and turned away, focusing his attention back on Lucy.

"I suppose so. We actually just finished up a case-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah I don't care about all that detective crap right now. Believe it or not, I've got a real reason to be calling you."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, I'm a bit angry with you John Watson."

"What did I do?" John asked, sighing and rolling his eyes.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were shagging your flatmate?"

"What?" John asked, a bit loudly than he intended to. He ignored the stares he received from passing strangers and lowered his voice. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm here with Mike Stamford, you remember him right?" Anyway, he tells me you and Mister Sherlock Holmes are in love," Ollie said, dragging out the last word of his sentence. John looked towards where Sherlock and Lucy had been standing, but saw that they had disappeared. He figured they'd just gone into Matthew's room. When John didn't respond, Ollie must've felt obliged to continue the conversation. "Yeah, he just says there's one problem. Hey Mike," His voice became a bit faint, but John could still hear him call to Mike asking why Sherlock an John hadn't admitted to the world that they loved each other.

"I said they didn't know it yet!" the familiar voice shouted. Ollie laughed, but John just used his free hand to massage the temple on the right side of his head. 

"Ollie, how drunk are you guys right now?"

"Does it matter?" John didn't answer, so Ollie continued to talk. "You know what my uncle used to tell me? He always said that drunk words are just sober thoughts. So according to him, the whole world would be a little bit more peaceful if all the world leaders went out and had a pint together. Don't you think so?"

"Of course." John ran a hand over his face and let out a long sigh. "Look, Ollie, It's been… great talking to you but I've got to go. I'll call you later when you've sobered up a bit."

"Alright then John. You take care! And tell Sherlock I said hello!"

"Will do."

John couldn't have pressed 'end call' fast enough. He placed the phone in his pocket and leaned against a nearby wall. He needed a moment to recollect himself before he went into that room with Sherlock. Ollie's words played over and over again in his head.

'Drunk words are sober thoughts.'

John thought back to that night in Fiji, when Sherlock had gotten drunk and had basically hit on him. If what Ollie's uncle said was true, did it apply to Sherlock as well? It wouldn't be unheard of for Sherlock to be the exception to the rule, but the more John thought about it, the more confused he became. Sherlock had been acting weird lately, and he was almost positive he'd been flirting with him when they were on their stakeout. Then again, Sherlock wasn't drunk then… or was he? John had no idea if he may have picked up something else from the gift shop and had been sneaking sips when John wasn't looking. He made a mental note to check and see if they even sold alcohol at that shop. He doubted it, which only made his confusion grow. John's mind was a clouded mess of jumbled thoughts and questions as he walked back to Matthew Greene's room.

Sherlock and Lucy were standing beside Matthew's bed, with their backs both facing the door. John was pretty sure they hadn't noticed him come in, and despite his better judgment he remained just inside the door while they continued their conversation.

"I wasted three years of my life because I was afraid," Lucy said, shaking her head. "But I refuse to live in fear anymore. And you should too."

"I still have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock replied, his tone defensive.

"Look Sherlock, it may be too late for me, but it's not too late for you. Tell him. Tell him you-"

"You're being ridiculous, Lucy! I have no idea what you're talking about."

"We both know that's not true." She reached up and placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, then turned to smile up at him. Well, smirk was more like it.

"You're not the only observant one here," she said. Sherlock quickly turned to face her, his face angry and his mouth turned into a frown. John could sense a serious berating coming on, so he cleared his throat in an effort to divert Sherlock's attention. It worked, and for a moment Sherlock just stared at John with surprised etched on his face. After a while all of the shock had melted away and he stared coldly at John.

"Hello John," he said. His voice was tense as well as his face and body. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long," John said, taking a few steps forward. "Sorry about that, by the way." He gestured with his thumb behind him. "The phone call."

"Oh, it's fine," Sherlock said, his nose crinkling as he said this. John squinted at him, trying to figure out why he was acting so weird. He wondered what he and Lucy had been talking about.

"My friend Ollie says hi, by the way. You don't know him." Sherlock nodded his head, then turned towards Lucy and gave her a smile that John knew was fake.

"Well," he said, "It's been lovely speaking with you and I am terribly sorry for your loss, but John and I have got to get going."

"Alright then," Lucy said, eyeing Sherlock carefully. It was obvious she could tell the smile wasn't genuine. "Thank you for coming." Sherlock just nodded, then turned and walked out the room. John trailed behind him as they walked down the hall.

"So, Sherlock," he said when they got outside, "Why did she call you here?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Not entirely sure. All she did was talk about Matthew."

"Was that all she talked about?" John asked, leaning towards Sherlock slightly. He looked down at John with a confused look on his face.

"Yes." John smiled up at Sherlock. "What?"

"Nothing." Sherlock hailed a cab and the two of them climbed inside. Sherlock gave the cabbie directions to some restaurant John had been to once or twice, and then everything was silent for a brief moment.

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock said once suddenly. "I hope so because we're headed to a restaurant now. I'm sorry, I meant to ask before we got in the cab."

"It's…fine," John said slowly, staring at Sherlock, who was staring out the window and fidgeting. His eyes were darting around and his hands were constantly moving up and down his thighs. His feet were tapping and he was constantly shifting in his seat. "Sherlock are you alright?"

"What? Me?" he laughed nervously and nodded his head. "I'm fine. Perfect. Absolutely wonderful. Couldn't be better. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine Sherlock."

"Well that's good. That's great in fact." John continued glancing in Sherlock's direction every now and then, but each time he looked over Sherlock was staring out the window, and so John would look down at his lap until the next time he looked at Sherlock.


	15. Fifteen

Once John and Sherlock returned to the flat after a very interesting and chatter-filled lunch at 'The Vineyard', they'd spent the rest of the afternoon watching TV and playing Cluedo. John actually won a round and Sherlock had sulked for about fifteen minutes before demanding a rematch. He'd then gone on to win two games in a row before they decided to quit. Then John made some tea and they drank it while watching detective shows until late in the evening. John was particularly engrossed in one episode involving a stolen truck and an international drug ring when he thought he heard sounds coming from the couch.

"John," came Sherlock's muffled voice. John, who kept his eyes trained on the television screen just nodded his head in Sherlock's general direction to let him know he had his attention.

"Yes Sherlock?" he asked when Sherlock didn't continue speaking. There was still no answer, so John turned around in his seat to find that Sherlock was asleep. The detective was curled up on the couch, facing outward, both hands resting underneath his head as he slept. His eyelashes were fanned out over his cheeks, and his lips were parted slightly. His expression could only be described as peaceful.

He looked so unlike himself…so innocent. Like an angel child who had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for Santa to show up on Christmas Eve. For a while John watched him as he slept, his chest moving ever so slowly as he breathed. John's eyes scanned over his face, taking in every detail he saw. His eyes remained fixed on his pink, bow-shaped lips longer than anything.

Suddenly Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and the corners of his lips turned downward.

"John…" His voice was barely above a whisper, but John still heard him say his name. Sherlock took in a deep breath and his frown became more prominent. He began tossing and turning and John heard a deep moan escape from him. John immediately rose from his seat and knelt down in front of the couch. His hand hovered for a bit over Sherlock's head before he gently stroked his curly hair.

"Sherlock," he said softly, "wake up."

Sherlock took in another deep breath and started tossing again, but John held his shoulders and kept Sherlock facing towards him.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly opened and he stared directly at John. All John saw in those multicoloured eyes were fear and confusion, two things he hardly ever saw in Sherlock. John watched as both emotions disappeared from Sherlock's eyes and he eventually calmed down. He sighed and let his head drop.

"Oh, John, thank God."

"What is it Sherlock?"

The detective sat up and ran his hands over his face. He shook his head and took in a deep breath. He let it out slowly, then looked down at John, who was still kneeling on the floor. Their eyes remained locked for a moment, and John felt a lump growing in his throat. Sherlock kept completely silent, and John remained on his knees in front of the couch.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" he asked in what he hoped was a gentle and soothing tone of voice. Sherlock just yawned and nodded his head, still not saying a word. John guessed he was still in the process of waking up. They both sat there for a few moments, not moving or saying anything while Sherlock seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

"What time is it?" he asked after a short while. John looked around for a clock, saw Sherlock's phone sitting on the floor nearby and grabbed that.

"It's only about eight or so." Sherlock sighed and brought his bottom lip between his teeth. He nodded his head slowly, then turned so his back was against the back of the sofa. He let his head fall backwards and closed his eyes. John made himself more comfortable on the floor and sat staring up at Sherlock.

"Are you okay?" He asked again. Sherlock still didn't answer, but let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine John." John winced at his tone. He sounded annoyed. "I was just having a bad dream, is all."

"What about?" Sherlock opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling.

"I'd rather not talk about it." John looked down and nodded, though he knew Sherlock couldn't see.

"Alright then," he said, starting to stand up, "I think I'll just…go to my room then."

"Would you mind staying out here for a moment longer?" John froze, then sat back down on the floor.

"Okay, if that's what you want." Sherlock looked down at him and smiled.

"Thank you." He slid over some and placed his hand on the cushion beside him. "You can sit up here if you want." John hesitated to stand. His mind drifted back to Fiji, when they'd shared a bed, and he thought about how it had felt to have Sherlock laying beside him while they were both trying to fall asleep. He could remember the warmth he felt from Sherlock's body even though they weren't touching. He thought about waking up every morning with Sherlock's head on his shoulder, and his heart began to beat faster. He thought about a drunken Sherlock grabbing onto the belt loops of his jeans, and he thought about the kitchen scene that he had yet to figure out. He thought about their stakeout, where he'd fallen asleep on Sherlock's shoulder, and about how comfortable he had been with his head resting there. His heart skipped a beat as he stood up and sat down beside Sherlock.

They were sitting less than a few inches apart, and John was incredibly aware of that fact. He reached up and ran his hand across his chin, and let it fall to his knee. Sherlock jumped slightly beside him, and John realized it wasn't his own knee he had just grabbed. His hand slowly slid away from Sherlock's knee and moved to rest on his own.

"Sorry."

"It's fine."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Every now and then John would glance out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock just to make sure he was alright. He had seemed pretty freaked out by whatever dream he'd had. The fact that he refused to talk about it worried John even more.

After a while of not speaking, Sherlock sighed and covered his face with his hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. John looked over at him, wishing he knew how to comfort his friend. he raised his hand, then after a brief hesitation, he placed it on Sherlock's back. John began to subconsciously move his hands up and down Sherlock's back, not even realizing that he was doing so until Sherlock leaned over towards John and rested his head on his shoulder. Without saying a word John moved his hand so that it was resting on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock just sighed again, then stood up. John stared up at him as he paced back and forth. Every now and then Sherlock would stop walking and open his mouth as if to say something, but then would only shake his head and resume walking.

"Sherlock," John called out to him. Sherlock stopped and turned towards John, but kept his eyes downcast. "Are you alright?" Sherlock just nodded. "Would you tell me if you weren't?" Sherlock brought his hand up to his chin and stroked it, and John found it hard to look away from his slender fingers as they ran over the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock's jaw.

"Probably not," Sherlock finally said before walking out of the living room, stopping in the doorway to turn back and look at John. He flashed him a wide smile. John knew the smile was incredibly fake and forced, but he still found himself smiling back before Sherlock spoke.. "But thank you for the concern." John sighed and nodded his head.

"Alright then," he said, standing up, "I'm going off to bed." Sherlock simply nodded his head in reply, and the two men parted ways. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen and John guessed he was making his way to his room. It was dark, so John took extra caution as he went up the stairs so he wouldn't fall. He dressed for bed, then climbed underneath the sheets and settled down. His eyelids were just beginning to fall shut when he heard the sound of a violin coming from downstairs.

_________________________

Three days after Sherlock and John's visit to St. Bart's, Lucy stopped by the flat to tell Sherlock that Matthew had been taken off of life support. John had poured her a cup of tea while she and Sherlock sat at the table in the living room and she talked about her final moments with him before she left and his family showed up. She told them they were more than welcome to come to the funeral, and though Sherlock had smiled and told Lucy he'd try to make it, John knew he didn't really mean it. After all, Sherlock was never one to get emotionally invested in any case or any of the people involved. He didn't really get emotionally involved in anything. Aside from the occasional mood swing, quiet chuckle, or random displays of anger and contempt, John would have assumed that Sherlock had no emotions.

Still, he was a pro at pretending to have them, and was able to give Lucy a very convincing smile as she left before collapsing onto the sofa. He covered his face with his hands and groaned. John stood by the door that Lucy had just walked out of. He closed it slowly and kept his eyes on Sherlock as he did so.

"Are- are you alright Sherlock?" he asked when Sherlock didn't move for several moments.

"Peachy."

John could tell by Sherlock's tone of voice that he was anything but. He strode over to the sofa and moved Sherlock's feet out of the way so he could sit down. Sherlock rolled over onto his back and placed his feet in John's lap. They stayed like that for a few minutes while John tried to think of something to say to comfort the obviously upset Sherlock.

"Sherlock, if you are upset by Matthew's-"

"I'm not upset about Matthew." Sherlock lifted his head to glare at John, and John just smiled at him. He figured it would do no good to get angry with Sherlock, when he should be used to stuff like this by now. He placed a hand on one of Sherlock's feet and began massaging the underside with his thumb. He heard a sigh escape Sherlock's lips, and when he looked over at him he saw that his eyes had closed, and his fingers were steepled together and resting beneath his chin. Neither of them said anything, and it was a comfortable silence. John continued to massage Sherlock's feet, and Sherlock let him.

After a while John's stomach began to rumble and he realized he was quite famished. He patted Sherlock's foot lightly before standing up and grabbing his coat from the back of his armchair.

"I think I'm in the mood for some take away," he said, sitting down to put on his shoes. "Do you want me to grab you anything for you?"

"No thank you," came Sherlock's reply. "Not hungry." 

John had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and though he wanted desperately to talk to Sherlock and try to convince him to eat something, he figured it would be best to leave him alone for now. He simply nodded his head, then after making sure he had his keys, phone, and wallet, walked out of the flat.


	16. Sixteen

On the day of Matthew's funeral, Sherlock sent a sympathy card to Lucy, and in that card he gave an excuse as to why he couldn’t make it and apologized for not being at the funeral. That night, John had fallen asleep in the living room watching a movie, and was roused from his slumber by shouting coming from Sherlock's room.

He'd gotten up from his chair as quickly as he could and ran into Sherlock's room to find the detective sitting up in his bed, his eyes wild and his hair a mess of curls sitting atop his head. He was looking around the room with a strange look on his face, and when his eyes finally landed on John standing in the doorway he seemed to relax.

"Are you okay?" John asked, taking a few steps into the room. "I heard shouting."

"Yes, yes, I’m fine," Sherlock said, running a hand through his hair. John watched him and noticed how heavy his breathing was.

"Another nightmare," John said to himself. Sherlock must've heard him though, as he nodded his head and sighed. John walked over to the bed and sat down next to where he guessed Sherlock's feet were. Sherlock stared at him, as if he were expecting John to say something, so John wracked his brain for something to say.

"Was it the same nightmare as last time?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Similar though." He shrugged. "Well, sort of similar."

"Care to explain?"

"Not really." John sighed and nodded his head, then reached over and patted Sherlock's foot.

"Would you like for me to stay for a bit?" he asked, offering a smile. Sherlock nodded his head, then fell back onto the bed and closed his eyes. John watched him as he tried to fall back to sleep, and for some reason he found that the longer he stared at Sherlock, the more he wanted to reach over and smooth down his hair or wipe away the beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead. He resisted the urge to do so, however, and instead sat still at the foot of Sherlock's bed and waited for him to fall asleep. When John saw his breathing slow down he removed his hand from Sherlock's foot and placed it in his lap on top of his other one. He sat there for a moment longer, watching Sherlock drift off to sleep, then stood up and left the room.

_____________________________

As days turned into weeks, Sherlock's nightmares became more frequent and more intense. After a while it got to the point where it wasn't uncommon for John to go with Sherlock into his room when he was tired and would sit with him until he'd fallen asleep, only leaving to go to his own bed after Sherlock had been asleep for a decent amount of time. For some reason it seemed Sherlock slept perfectly fine whenever John was there with him, but whenever he slept alone the nightmares would come. John had begged for Sherlock to talk to him about his terrible dreams, but he always refused, telling John that he was perfectly fine and there was nothing to worry about.

In addition to the fact that he seemed to be getting little to no sleep, Sherlock was back to skipping meals and playing the violin at odd times of the day. Whenever John saw him he looked incredibly exhausted. He was concerned that Sherlock' s nightmares had persisted for so long, but he had given up on trying to get Sherlock to talk about them because each time he did Sherlock would get upset, and he didn't want to cause any trouble. He'd actually been spending the last few days trying to figure out how to approach the subject and not upset Sherlock, so they could finally put an end to these bad dreams and Sherlock could get a decent night's sleep. As soon as he found a way to do that, he was going to have to speak with Sherlock. He hated seeing him doing so poorly and not being able to help.

It wasn't until John began to notice Sherlock nodding off in the middle of his experiments that he decided to take action, no matter what the consequences. He'd walked into the kitchen one day and yanked the sleepy Sherlock away from his microscope, placing both of hands on Sherlock's shoulders to steady him. The fact that Sherlock refused to meet John's gaze told him that he knew what he was about to say.

"Sherlock," he began softly, relaxing his grip on his shoulders. "You've got to do something about these dreams of yours."

"I'm telling you John, it's nothing," Sherlock tried to say, though his words were incredibly slurred. John figured he was just tired, and the fact that he was so exhausted that he couldn't speak properly worried him.

"Sherlock I know that's not true."John let go of Sherlock, and used one hand to grab Sherlock's chin and force him to look up. He offered a friendly smile when Sherlock finally met his gaze. It was easy to see just how tired Sherlock was, but John knew he was probably still going to argue. He hoped that if he kept talking Sherlock would give up and admit to the fact that something was in fact wrong.

"Look, you can tell me anything, you know that right?" Sherlock gave him a small smile and nodded. "Then, why won't you say anything now?" Sherlock just shrugged.

"Not the right time." John was confused by his statement, and told him so. "I know it doesn't make sense, but…" he sighed. "Oh, never mind."

"Can you tell me anything?" Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment, then shook his head. "Why won't you let me help you?" Sherlock ran a hand over his face and yawned.

"What could you possibly do to help?" John took some time to glance around the room while he tried to think of an answer.

"I could, um, maybe…" he sighed. "Oh, I don't know. When I was little and had nightmares my mum used to-"

"Oh, so treating me like a child is going to make everything better?" John shrugged and felt a smile on his lips.

"I'm just trying to help you." Sherlock turned away from John and began to clean up his experiment. He didn't speak for a while, and neither did John. He wasn't sure whether to stay or to leave, but ultimately decided to stay. After Sherlock had finished putting everything away he turned towards John and smiled.

"Alright."

"What?"

"I said alright. I'll tell you anything you want to know…just not now."

"When?"

"Soon." John felt a wave of relief wash over him, and he smiled.

"Okay, good."

Sherlock gave John a small smile, then disappeared into his room. John went into the living room and sat down in his armchair. Several minutes later Sherlock emerged wearing his trench coat and scarf, and John asked him where he was heading off to.

"I'm just going for a walk," he said, looking down. John considered asking if he could tag along, but he figured Sherlock wanted time by himself. He waved him off as he left the flat, then focused his attention on the television in front of him. Though he tried to keep his mind occupied with thoughts relating to the program he was watching, John found that his mind often wandered to thoughts of Sherlock and what he might be doing at that point in time. John wondered where he had walked to, and what he was thinking about. Sherlock never went for walks, so this was very significant in John's mind. He knew Sherlock was thinking about whatever it was that was causing his nightmares, and when he thought this John's train of thought carried him from thinking about Sherlock's nightmares to when he would sit at the end of Sherlock's bed at night to ensure he had at least a few hours of sleep that night.

Until recently he'd thought it to be quite creepy to watch someone while they slept, but when John was staring down at Sherlock's sleeping face he understood why anyone would do it. When Sherlock was asleep, completely shut off from the world with his eyes shut and his mouth parted slightly, it was fascinating to watch. He looked so peaceful, and so vulnerable, John could barely believe his eyes when he looked down at the sleeping detective. It was mind blowing to think that someone as brilliant and extraordinary as Sherlock could ever appear to be so incredibly human. Though John rather enjoyed staring into Sherlock's amazing multicoloured eyes when he was awake, he didn't mind staring at his eyelids and the long eyelashes that fanned out over his chiseled cheekbones when he was sleeping.

From watching Sherlock John had come to the conclusion that people became more beautiful when they slept. When John realized that in thinking this he was calling Sherlock beautiful he'd been thrown for a loop. Of course, Sherlock's face was aesthetically pleasing; John would have to be insane to say that Sherlock wasn't the least bit attractive, but would John go as far as to call him beautiful? As he thought back to those nights spent in Sherlock's room and images of Sherlock's face filled John's mind, he had to admit that Sherlock was far more than just beautiful. The fact that he was thinking this about another man upset John a little bit, only because he had never thought such things before. Up until now he'd only thought females to be beautiful, but thanks to Sherlock that opinion had changed. The only thing John had yet to figure out was, was this change for the better?

John heard the door open, and looked over with his brow furrowed to see Sherlock removing his gloves. John's eyes remained fixed on Sherlock, unblinking, while his mind processed the fact that he had obviously spent a decent amount of time thinking about how attractive Sherlock was when he slept, and when he was awake for that matter. Sherlock looked up and caught John staring, and gave him a warm smile. It seemed the walk had done him well. He finished removing his gloves, then stuffed them into his pockets before starting to take off his scarf .

"Have a nice walk?" John asked, turning back around in his seat. He heard movement behind him, and guessed that Sherlock had made his way over to the sofa. He heard the sound of a coat being thrown over something, followed by what he guessed was the sound of Sherlock flopping down onto the sofa.

"Yes, thanks for asking." John turned to look at Sherlock, and when he saw Sherlock staring at him with a strange smile on his face he raised an eyebrow. Sherlock's smile only grew and he sat straight up, steepling his fingers together underneath his chin as he continued to stare at John.

"Come with me on a trip," he said after several moments had passed.

"What kind of trip?"

"I figure a nice car ride through the countryside, finally arriving at a cozy little cottage that no one knows about…except for me…where we can stay for a few days."

"Sherlock, why-"

"I told you I'd tell you anything you wanted to know." Sherlock reached up to scratch the back of his head as he talked. "And I will, if you'll come with me."

"But why a cottage in the countryside?"

"You're going to be interrogating me on the cause of my nightmares. I figure it'd be better to do that in a calm and peaceful setting. And what's more calm and peaceful than a secluded country cottage?" John tried to think of something to say back, but found that he could form no convincing argument as to why they shouldn't go out to the country for a few days. In fact, perhaps a few days away from their hectic life in the city was what Sherlock needed. That had been John's logic for dragging Sherlock to Fiji, and though there were still problems when they got back, while they were in that tropical paradise Sherlock had been in a pretty decent mood. John smiled and nodded his head.

"Alright."

When John said this, Sherlock's face lit up with a smile and he hopped up from the couch. He grabbed his coat and scarf, then patted John on the shoulder before walking back to his room, leaving John alone and very confused. Sherlock returned a short while later carrying two cups of tea. He handed one to John before sitting down at the table in the center of the room. John's eyes drifted over in Sherlock's direction and he watched him as he sipped his tea.

"We'll leave for the cottage this weekend," Sherlock said when he noticed John watching him. "I'll drive us there. You can just sit back and relax while you listen to the radio or something." John simply smiled at him and nodded, though on the inside he was far from content or relaxed. Though he was glad Sherlock was finally going to let him in and tell him what had been troubling him, he was afraid of what Sherlock was going to say. Part of the reason for his worry was the fact that Sherlock had often mumbled John's name in his sleep, whether he was having a nightmare or not. John hadn't told Sherlock this, and began to wonder if he should. He decided against it, hoping that Sherlock would just explain everything once they got to the cottage. He was anxious to get to the bottom of Sherlock's troubles, but more than anything John wanted to know why his name was so often on Sherlock's lips while he slept. He knew it wasn't normal to care so much about what someone dreamed about, but John tried to rationalize his concern. He tried to convince himself that he cared so much because Sherlock is his best friend, but when he looked over and saw Sherlock smiling at him, his heart raced and he knew that wasn't the only reason. John understood now that the feelings he had for Sherlock were stronger than that of just friendship.


	17. Seventeen

John and Sherlock were to leave for the cottage on Saturday. The plan was to leave the flat in the morning, arrive at the cottage sometime that afternoon, then spend a few days there and return to London sometime on Tuesday. In the days leading up to their departure, Sherlock seemed to grow more and more excited with each passing day.

When they'd first met, Sherlock had told John that sometimes he wouldn’t talk for days on end, and John had come to find that he was telling the truth then, but he hadn't known that Sherlock was also capable of talking nonstop for several days straight as well. When he wasn't going on and on about how beautiful the countryside was, Sherlock was telling John about how much he was going to like the cottage. It was strange to see Sherlock so animated, but John didn't mind sitting silently in his armchair and watch Sherlock pacing back and forth in the living room with an excited smile on his face, and his brilliantly beautiful pale eyes lit up as he talked about how wonderful the trip was going to be.

On Friday Sherlock went to see about getting a rental car for the weekend, and of course John came with him, unable to resist tagging along and admiring Sherlock's face in secret while he was out in the sunlight. Though it pained him to be so close to the man he felt so strongly for and not be able to reach out and touch him, to run a hand through his dark, curly hair, John had decided that it would be best to keep his feelings hidden, for fear of ruining his friendship with Sherlock.

Only once before had John developed romantic feelings for a friend, and it hadn't turned out favorably. Her name was Tabitha. She had bright red hair and big blue eyes that were the color of the sky on a beautiful spring morning. They'd been friends for years, but John had only realized his crush when they were hanging out one weekend. They were at her house, in her living room watching some movie and eating popcorn. She had started to laugh at something she found to be incredibly humourous, and John had noticed then just how gorgeous she was when she laughed. From that day on his crush grew and grew until he felt that he would go mad if he kept his feelings a secret any longer. 

Finally after two years of torturing himself, John invited Tabitha out to a picnic in a park near her house. They'd sat underneath an oak tree and talked for a while until John had finally built up enough courage to make his move. He'd looked deep into her eyes, and told her how he felt, then kissed her underneath that oak tree. Tabitha had just sat silently for a moment afterwards, not looking at John, before telling him that she 'valued their friendship too much to jeopardize losing it due to a breakup'. Then she'd stood up and left John sitting alone on that picnic blanket under an oak tree, surrounded by uneaten food that the ants had already started to attack.

Of course, John had been completely humiliated, and thus swore to himself that he would never endure that pain again. As a result of this, John made sure to never date any friend of his, and whenever John did date someone he made sure they weren't friends first, so that if the relationship went south there would be no friendship lost. He figured it was better this way, so no matter how much it hurt to keep his feelings hidden, he knew it would be worth it to have Sherlock as a friend instead of not at all.

"John."

He hadn't even realized Sherlock was calling his name until the detective placed a hand on his shoulder. John's heart rate accelerated at the contact, but he maintained a relaxed composure as he looked around. He found that he was surrounded by cars, and that confused him greatly. He didn't even remember getting out of the cab. He supposed he had been on some sort of auto-pilot mode while he'd been wandering down memory lane.

He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring down at him with an expectant look on his face. It appeared as if he'd just asked a question, but John had no idea as to what it was.

"I'm sorry," he said, "What?" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but John thought he saw a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"I said pick a car." John tore his eyes away from Sherlock's face to look at the cars around hm. After a while he looked back to Sherlock.

"I can't pick one," he said, "You pick." Sherlock squeezed John's shoulder before speaking.

"No, you."

"No you." Sherlock smiled down at John, then looked past his head with a smile on his fac.

"Would you give us a moment?" John turned around to see a woman in a blue uniform standing not too far away, smiling at them. She glanced at John briefly before nodding her head and walking away. John watched her as she left, then turned back to face Sherlock, looking slightly bewildered. He hadn't even realized there was someone behind him. He supposed it was just a 'side affect' of his crush on Sherlock: he didn't see anything or anyone else when Sherlock was nearby. It was rather annoying to be frankly honest, but John figured there was nothing he could do.

"You know," John said after clearing his throat. "You should probably pick out the car, since you'll be the one driving it." He reached up and patted Sherlock on the back before flashing him a smile. Sherlock's eyes glanced down briefly before he met John's gaze and nodded.

"Alright."

About an hour later John and Sherlock were in a Nissan Qashqai on their way back to the flat. Sherlock was at the wheel, and John was in the passenger seat, enjoying the view. It had been quite some time since he'd been gotten to sit in the front seat of any vehicle, and he had to admit it was nice to be able to see clearly out the front window.

"John, is there anything you'd like to get before we return to the flat?" John thought for a moment, then shook his head. "Are you sure? Because once we get there-"

"I know Sherlock. What we bring is all we have while we're there. There are no supermarkets in the countryside." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were turned upwards, which let John know that he wasn't really upset at having been cut off. No more words were spoken until they arrived at the flat, and the two men got out of the car. Sherlock had a bit of trouble with parallel parking, and nearly forgot to lock the vehicle, which led to some teasing from John, but that soon ended when they reached the living room. Sherlock went into the kitchen and started making tea, and John turned on the television. Sherlock eventually emerged with two cups of tea and handed one to John before making himself comfortable on the couch. John drank his tea in silence and listened to Sherlock talk about the cottage in between sips, then the two of them went into their respective rooms to change for bed. Once John was dressed in his night clothes he went back downstairs into Sherlock's room, and opened the door just as Sherlock was pulling his shirt over his head. John caught himself staring at the muscles in Sherlock's back that flexed as he did so, but quickly regained composure and averted his eyes before speaking.

"You uh, ready for bed?" he asked. John felt strange asking this, but only because he knew how much he wished that he and Sherlock were really going to be sleeping together. Not in the more mature sense of the word, though if Sherlock were to ever proposition John again like he had in Fiji he can't say he wouldn't consider it. He wished he and Sherlock were about to climb into bed and one of them would rest their head on the shoulder of the other, rather than Sherlock curl up into a ball underneath his blankets, facing away from John while he sat beside him on top of the covers, hands folded neatly in his lap while he stared into the darkness, and occasionally at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded his head, then climbed into his bed. John walked around to the other side and sat down, trying to find a way to occupy his mind other than thinking about how amazing Sherlock looked in the moonlight streaming through the window. The detective tossed and turned beside him trying to get comfortable, as he usually did, but the movement seemed to go on for longer than usual this night. Once John glanced down at him when he'd turned in his direction and saw Sherlock staring up at him with a smile on his face, his eyes half closed. John didn't understand the gesture, but he smiled back anyway, and Sherlock finally closed his eyes. John watched him for several minutes, then sighed and looked away. He let his head fall back to rest against the wall behind him and closed his eyes while Sherlock slept silently beside him.

______________________________________________

"John, wake up."

"Mmph," was all he managed to say. John felt something on his right arm, and reached up without looking to brush whatever it was away. When his hand came in contact with cool, smooth skin his eyes flew open and he looked down at his shoulder to see Sherlock's hand resting on his arm, and his hand laying gently on top of it. He quickly drew his hand back and looked down. The heat in his cheeks were undoubtedly making his face red and that was something he did not want Sherlock to see. He cleared his throat and covered his face with his hands.

"What time is it?"

"About seven o'clock. Now get up, we're leaving at nine."

With that Sherlock was up and out of the room. John yawned and stretched, and only when his hands hit the headboard did he realize he was laying down. He sat up and looked around and realized he was in Sherlock's room as well. He looked down and saw that he was in fact underneath the covers, and immediately he threw them off of himself and got up. He stared at the now empty bed for a moment, trying to figure out why he had been sleeping in it, and realized that he'd never made it back to his own room the previous night. The last thing he remembered was looking down at Sherlock's sleeping face, then leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He must've fallen asleep then, but that still didn't explain how he'd gotten underneath the covers. It had to have been a subconscious thing that he'd done during the night, because there was no other explanation for it.

John managed to take a shower and get ready in less than an hour, and came to join Sherlock in the kitchen. Much to his surprise, there was a plate of bacon and eggs sitting on the table across from Sherlock, who was reading the newspaper and hadn't even acknowledged John's presence.

"Is that-"

"For you? Yes." John glanced at Sherlock, who had yet to look up from the paper, then sat down. He ate his meal in silence, then washed the plate and fork. He noticed the absence of another plate and fork, and asked Sherlock if he'd already washed them.

"There was nothing to wash."

"You mean you didn't eat breakfast?" Sherlock shook his head and looked up at John with a strange expression on his face. John raised an eyebrow and took a step closer, and Sherlock turned his gaze away. "Why not?"

"Nervous stomach."

"Nervous?" When John asked this Sherlock's eyes grew slightly in size and his eyebrows raised a bit as well, almost as if he were surprised at what he'd said as well. "What are you nervous about?"

"Ahem," Sherlock cleared his throat and stood up. He began mumbling some nonsense about how long it had been since he'd last driven and started fretting over if he'd forgotten anything, and John just laughed.

"Would you stop all that worrying?" He walked over to Sherlock and placed a hand on his shoulder. He smiled up at Sherlock, who stared down at him with a blank expression. "I'm sure everything will be just fine." Sherlock took in a deep breath and held it, then nodded his head and let it out slowly. He stepped away from John, whose hand instantly became cold, missing the warmth of Sherlock's shoulder. John rolled his eyes and sighed. He was starting to turn into some sort of sappy idiot, and now he was about to spend four days completely alone with the sole cause of it. This was not going end well.


	18. Eighteen

Some kind of classical music that John had never heard before was playing softly in the background while he and Sherlock were cruising down some back country road. Sherlock had spent the last hour or so humming along to the music and John had been doing his best to ignore the fluttering feeling he got in his stomach when he heard Sherlock do so. Every so often he would glance over at the detective and see that his eyes were fixed on the road ahead of him, a relaxed smile on his face as he drove.

"Are you still nervous?" John asked, allowing his eyes to linger on Sherlock's face longer than he should've. Sherlock's face twisted into a grimace briefly before he smiled and shook his head.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p'.

"You're lying," John said, turning his head to look out the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock's head turn towards him. He glanced over at Sherlock, and felt a smile tugging at his lips when he saw the confused look in the detective's blue-green eyes.

"How'd you know?" Sherlock asked, turning back to watch the road. John just shrugged, and continued to smile at Sherlock.

"Because I know you." John reached over and placed a hand on Sherlock's upper arm, and he could've sworn he saw the faintest hint of colour in his cheeks. John figured it was just his "crush vision" playing cruel tricks on him, and ignored it. He sighed, and let his hand fall. These next few days were going to be rough. John began to wish he could head to a pub and have a few pints to be able to endure the emotional agony he was no doubt about to go through.

"Hey Sherlock," he said after a few moments of silence had passed between them, "I don't suppose you have anything...alcoholic in the cooler back there." He gestured with his thumb to the blue container of ice sitting in the back seat, and Sherlock shook his head.

"Of course not. I don't drink. You know that." John chuckled and nodded his head, remembering the one time he'd seen Sherlock drunk. He felt his ears get hot, but luckily Sherlock was still looking straight ahead and didn't see John blushing.

"Yeah, well... maybe you should," he suggested. Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

"Absolutely not. I hate drinking. It's dreadful actually, due to the fact that I can get completely hammered and still remember every incongruous thing I've done while under the influence." John sat silently in his seat while he thought about what Sherlock had said. If Sherlock was telling the truth, that he remembered everything he did when he was drunk, surely he would remember the things he'd said and done in their hotel room in Fiji. Yet, the next morning he'd acted as if he hadn't remembered a thing. So either Sherlock was lying now, or he'd been lying then. John wasn't sure as to which upset him the most.

"So...you're telling me that you can remember, with detail, everything that happened every time you've been drunk," John said, stroking his chin and staring at Sherlock. The detective nodded his head, and opened his mouth, most likely to make some sort of haughty remark at how impressive his memory was, but all of a sudden his face froze and he remained silent. His eyes briefly met John's and in that moment John swore he felt his heart stop. Sherlock licked his lips, then looked back at the road.

"I think we should make a pit stop," he said quietly, "My leg is beginning to cramp up." John didn't say anything, but his mind was racing a mile a minute. Did Sherlock remember that night in Fiji? The look on his face was enough evidence to support the theory that he did, but for some reason John wasn't quite sure. Sherlock had seemed to genuinely not remember anything, but perhaps he was just a fantastic actor, even when hung over... unless that had been an act as well. John was drowning in a sea of his thoughts when Sherlock pulled over to the side of the road and stepped out of the car. John remained inside, and took out his phone. He dialed Ollie's number, knowing that a conversation with him would be a great distraction from his own suffocating thoughts and questions. He answered after three rings.

"John! How are ya?"

"I'm doing alright Ollie, and you?"

"I'm fantastic." John tried to listen closely to Ollie's speech, to see if his words were slurred at all, but he seemed to be pretty lucid. That was a relief; John wasn't sure if he could handle a drunk Ollie at the moment. "What's the reason for calling?" he asked, and John shrugged.

"None really. Just thought we could have a nice little chat. You did say to stay in touch, didn't you?" John thought back to the conversation he'd had with Ollie while he and Sherlock were in the hospital to see Lucy. John had spoken to Ollie once since then, the day after that, and Ollie seemed to have no recollection of that the exchange whatsoever. John was thankful for that.

They chatted for a while about nothing important, and John had barely noticed Sherlock get back inside the car and start it up again. When they were back on the road he said goodbye to Ollie and hung up, then looked over at Sherlock, and was surprised to see that he had his phone out and was texting while driving.

"Sherlock!" he said, "Put your phone away!"

"Relax, John, I can multitask." As Sherlock said this, however, John noticed the car swerve to the left slightly. He sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, but just because you can do something doesn't mean you should."

"But Lestrade needs my help-"

"Yeah, well, it can wait," John said, reaching over and trying to take the phone from Sherlock's hands. Sherlock jerked away, accidentally jerking the steering wheel and causing the car to veer off the road a bit. He dropped his phone in his lap and grabbed the steering wheel, but in his effort to get the car back on the road he overcorrected and sent the vehicle flying all the way across the asphalt. Everything began to move in slow motion and John let out a surprised yelp as the car swerved to the other side of the road, slamming into some trees that were less than a meter away from the blacktop.

John heard a loud bang and the sound of glass breaking, followed by what he thought were muffled sounds of pain coming from Sherlock. John felt an intense pain shooting up his right leg and he sucked in a breath, trying to ignore it. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on breathing slow and even, but his concentration was broken when he felt a hand fall heavy on his shoulder.

"John, are you alright?!" The concern in Sherlock's voice was heartwarming. John nodded his head, but kept his eyes closed. His leg was in fact killing him, but he didn't want Sherlock to know. He already seemed freaked out enough from the tone of his voice and the shaking of his hand that was resting on John's shoulder. He slowly opened one eye and looked down at his leg. His leg must have been hit when the car door had been bashed in by the trees. There were a few dark red marks on his jeans, and immediately tried to find his pocket knife so he could cut his trouser leg open and see if the injury was very serious. It didn't take long for him to finish cutting, and he sighed with relief when he saw that the blood was only from stray pieces of glass that had cut his leg. He looked up and tried to give Sherlock a reassuring smile, but when he saw the red streaming down the left side of Sherlock's face, and the bruise that was already beginning to form on his cheek, his entire face fell.

"Sherlock! Are you okay?" he asked, his voice worried and frantic. Sherlock scoffed and furrowed his eyebrows together.

"What? Me? I'm fine. I hit my head on the window is all, but that's not important right now. You are."

Sherlock's hands were slightly outstretched towards John, shaking slightly, hovering in the air as if he wanted to touch John's face or hair, but was hesitant to do so. Despite his better judgment telling him not to, John reached up and gently placed a hand on the side of Sherlock's face that was injured, and used his thumb to wipe away some of the blood that had begun to trickle down.

"Turn your head further," John said, trying to get a better look at his injury.

"John, I'm fine."

"No you're not, Sherlock. Your head is bleeding. Now let me see." When Sherlock refused again, John tried to move his hair out of the way to see what kind of cut Sherlock had gotten, but couldn't do so without adjusting the way he was sitting in the seat slightly. When John moved, however, another wave of pain washed over him, manifesting itself mainly in his right leg and he winced. Sherlock looked down, and his jaw dropped. It was possible that he hadn't seen the blood stains until that moment.

"You're hurt," he said, his voice barely a whisper. John began stroking Sherlock's hair and looked at the driver's side window, trying not to grimace when he saw the cracks where Sherlock had undoubtedly hit his head.

"So are you," he said in a voice that was as quiet and as delicate as Sherlock's had been. Sherlock's face was now mere centimeters away from his, and for a moment John forgot all about his pain as he stared into Sherlock's pale eyes.

"We've got to call an ambulance," Sherlock said, looking away and freeing John from the trance he'd been in. He pulled out his phone and called for help, and John found himself playing with Sherlock's hair while he listened to him speak to the emergency operator. By now the pain in his leg had become a dull ache, and was much more bearable now. He only wished Sherlock's head was the same.

Sherlock hung up the phone and his eyes met John's again. They were full of enough worry and guilt to nearly break John's heart, but he tried not to let any discomfort or pain show on his face, for Sherlock's sake.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock said, shaking his head slightly. The movement must've hurt, because John saw a frown form on his lips momentarily when he did this. Sherlock sighed heavily and his shoulders slumped. "This is all my fault."

"No, it's not," John said, continuing to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, being careful as to not accidentally touch the cut and hurt him any further. He knew he probably shouldn't be touching Sherlock like this, with one hand on his cheek and another in his hair, but he found the contact to be quite comforting, and Sherlock hadn't complained yet. He twisted a curl around one finger and tried to give Sherlock a soothing smile.

"How long until they get here?" he asked. Sherlock sighed, then tentatively placed a hand over John's that was resting on his face and closed his eyes. John felt his heart skip a beat when Sherlock did this, but he tried not to let it show how Sherlock's gentle touch was affecting him, just in case he opened his eyes.

"Since we're so far away from town, it'll be a while." John nodded his head and looked down at his leg. The stains were still small, which meant the bleeding was not serious, and for that he was glad. He let his head drop and rested his forehead against Sherlock's chest, not caring how it must've looked. Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around John, trying not to move him too much, obviously afraid of him hurting his leg any more. They didn't speak, and they stayed like that until the ambulance came.


	19. Nineteen

The ride to the hospital had been long and arduous. Sherlock, who had refused to ride in a separate ambulance, had remained sitting beside John while he was lying in the stretcher, one hand pressing something against his forehead to stop his cut from bleeding, the other one gently smoothing down John's hair. John was sure that everyone in the ambulance thought they were a couple, and he couldn't blame them. After all, they had been cuddling in the car when the ambulance came, and he was pretty sure that hair stroking was a bit too intimate a gesture for them to be thought of as 'just friends'. John himself was a bit confused as to why Sherlock was doing it, but it felt nice, so he didn't complain.

In fact, when John found himself lying down on some table getting his leg x-rayed, he'd wished that Sherlock was standing beside him, running his hands over his hair, rather than in a completely different part of the hospital getting the gash in his forehead stitched up.

The next time John saw Sherlock was when he was lying in a hospital bed waiting for a doctor to come and give him the results of his x-ray. He'd heard a soft knocking at the door, and he turned his head to see Sherlock leaning against the door frame. All of the blood had been wiped from his face, and his hair was covering the majority of the stitches, but John could still see the bruising on his cheek. Despite the pain he felt in his chest at seeing Sherlock's face like that, he smiled at him.

"May I come in?" Sherlock asked. John's smile grew and he rolled his eyes.

"Of course you can." Sherlock nodded his head, then came inside, standing at John's bedside. When he was close enough, John reached up towards him. Sherlock looked confused, but bent down enough for John to lightly brush his fingers over the purple marks on his face. He heard someone behind Sherlock clear their throat, and he let his hand fall to his side while Sherlock turned around. Perhaps John was just seeing things, but he could've sworn Sherlock was glaring at the doctor and nurse standing just inside the room, looking down at something on the clipboard in his hands.

"Well, it appears you have a fibular fracture," he said, not looking up. "There's no need to worry, but since you aren't exactly a 'spring chicken' anymore it might take a bit longer to heal than it would for some younger people. I say we get you in a cast, and you'll have to wear it for at least a month." John sighed and nodded his head, and felt Sherlock place his hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The doctor pulled a pen out and held it poised in his hand, ready to write.

"I can prescribe you some medication for the pain, if you'd like," he said, and John told him he'd appreciate it. The doctor nodded his head and began scribbling something down. "Okay, now, would you like crutches or a cane? I'd suggest the crutches but it's your choice."

"Well, I already have a cane at home," John said, looking up at Sherlock, "Maybe I should get the crutches." The doctor began scribbling something down and nodded.

"Very well then. Have they brought your clothes yet?" John shook his head, and the doctor turned to the nurse beside him. "Go find his clothes."

With that they turned and left, leaving Sherlock and John alone again. John sighed and closed his eyes. He felt a cool hand briefly touch his forehead, and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock staring down at him, his facial expression concerned and guilt ridden. That only lasted for a moment before Sherlock's face was completely wiped of any emotion and he brought his hand back to his side. He took in a breath, as if to speak, but John raised a finger to his own lips and shushed him.

"If you're going to apologize again, you keep your mouth shut." Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but closed his mouth and stood silently beside John's bed. After a brief moment he raised his hand to John's forehead again, and began gently brushing his fingers across his hairline.

After several minutes the nurse from before appeared in the doorway holding the bag that contained John's clothes, shoes, and wallet. She gave them a small smile and held up the bag, and Sherlock waved her over with the hand that wasn't playing with John's hair. She placed the clothes on John's bed and smiled.

"Is there anything else I can help you with before you go?"

"Actually, I have a question," Sherlock said, staring down at her. He clasped his hands together in front of himself and tilted his head to the side. "Where is the gift shop?"

"It's on the main floor, right by the welcome desk." Sherlock gave her a tight lipped smile, then turned to John and his smile grew wider.

"I'll be right back." John nodded his head.

"Alright." Sherlock started to walk away, and the nurse smiled down at John.

"Your boyfriend seems really sweet." John chuckled and shook his head as he reached for his shirt.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you anything otherwise, would you?" The nurse just smiled and shook her head, and John found himself smiling as well. He saw a figure moving out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to see Sherlock's head poking in through the doorway. John wished he hadn't heard the nurse's comment, and his response, but the smirk on his face told John that he had.

"I was just wondering if you wanted me to get you anything while I was down there. Snack, card, 'Get Well Soon' balloon?" John's entire face was hot and he avoided eye contact with Sherlock as he shook his head. He glanced up in time to see Sherlock smiling at him, then leave. The nurse began to giggle, and if John wasn't so embarrassed he would have joined her.

Thanks to Mycroft, Sherlock was able to avoid any serious repercussions he may have had for crashing the rental car, and the rental company ended up only asking for another car to replace the one that had been crashed. Of course, Mycroft had taken care of that as well, and John couldn't figure out why. For someone who claimed to dislike Sherlock so much, Mycroft seemed to always be willing to help him out. He figured their sibling bond was just stronger than he'd originally thought.

John had gotten used to using the crutches, but he still hated hated them. Because of it he didn't leave the flat for a few days once they'd returned from the hospital. He stayed mostly in the living room, and Sherlock had actually let John use his bed so he wouldn't have to go upstairs to his. He cooked breakfast for John every morning, and thankfully he seemed to have improved at cooking quite a bit since the crêpe incident. During the day John would watch television or browse the internet while Sherlock read the newspaper or played violin. At night they would drink tea and talk about what they'd read, or watched in the paper or on TV. Then John would tell Sherlock he was ready for bed, and Sherlock would wash out the teacups while John got ready for bed. Then they would say goodnight, and John would head into Sherlock's room. Though he wished Sherlock would come in and lay down beside him, John figured it was also nice to be able to listen to Sherlock play the violin in the living room until he fell asleep.

Sherlock hadn't taken a case since they'd gotten back either. It was obvious he was itching to get back to work, but for some reason he wouldn't even look at any of the e-mails he got. John suggested that if he was apprehensive to go outside for whatever reason he could just work on the cases from home, and Sherlock had looked at him like he was an idiot. John didn't mention the cases again.

Sherlock's nightmares seemed to persist, if John's hearing wasn't failing him and those really were shouts coming from the living room at night. He'd asked Sherlock if he wanted to try sleeping in his own bed again and they could start up their system once more, but Sherlock had refused. He told him the nightmares 'weren't that bad' and that he could handle them, but John knew otherwise. He wanted to ask Sherlock about them, but he was so afraid of upsetting him that he decided to wait until Sherlock told him he was ready again.

Though as the days went on Sherlock became more and more irritable, most likely due to his lack of sleep. John would wake up and limp into the living room to find Sherlock sulking on the couch. It wasn't often that John found Sherlock like this, though, because almost as soon as he noticed that John was in the room his attitude would change completely. He was always in a good mood around John, smiling and laughing and engaging in playful banter, but every now and then John would catch a hint of something else in his eyes that wasn't happiness or joy, or see that his jaw was clenched and his mouth almost a frown. Yet, these things only lasted for a brief second before Sherlock was smiling at John and offering to make him tea or play a board game.

One evening, while John and Sherlock were in the middle of a rousing game of Guess Who there was a knock at the door. Sherlock went to answer it, and when the door was opened both men were surprised to see Lestrade standing in the doorway. There was a smile on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock stepped to the side and allowed him to enter, and offered for him to take a seat on the sofa.

"No, that's alright," he said, "I won't be here long."

"Alright then," Sherlock said, sitting back down at the table across from John. Lestrade gave them a strange look, then smiled.

"You're playing Guess Who?"

"More like winning," Sherlock said, smirking at John. He turned back to face Lestrade with a serious face. "Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, a hint of irritation in his voice. Lestrade held his hands up and laughed. A sly smirk appeared on his face as he reached into one of his coat pockets. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Sherlock.

"This." Sherlock took it from his hand and began examining the envelope. "No, open it."

Sherlock gave him a strange look and did as he was told. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and began reading it. After a few seconds he made a disgusted face and shook his head.

"No thanks."

"Oh come on," Lestrade said, taking a few steps closer to the table and crossing his arms. John tried to lean forward enough to get a glimpse of what the paper said. When Sherlock noticed him struggling to lift out of his seat without hurting his leg he flipped the paper around so John could read it.

"It's an invitation of some sort." Sherlock said, frowning at the paper when he turned it back around.

"Yes, there's going to be a little 'get together' at my new flat this Saturday and I'd love it if you two could come." Sherlock chuckled and balled the piece of paper up in his fist. He placed the crumpled up invitation on the table next to the game and gave Lestrade a tight lipped smile.

"Thanks, but no thanks," John reached out and grabbed the paper, smoothing it back out. Sherlock sat frozen in place while John turned to Lestrade and gave him a smile.

"We'll be there," he said. Sherlock immediately glared at him.

"What?! You're not serious..."

"I'm very serious." Sherlock kept his glare for a few seconds, then sighed and nodded his head.

"Okay," he said. "Okay fine."

John was surprised he gave in so easily, and from the look on his face Lestrade was as well. His eyebrows were raised and he nodded his head slowly, unfolding hi s arms and backing towards the door.

"Great!" he said, smiling. "The address and all that is on the invitation. Can't wait to see you guys there. Oh, and it's a bit of a formal event so dress nice." He closed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock and John alone once more.

"There's a nice little shop not too far from here that sells reasonably priced suits," Sherlock said, picking up his violin from the table where it had been resting. John furrowed his brow and stared at him.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Didn't you hear Lestrade? He said it's a formal event, which means you can't go in one of those silly little jumpers you always wear."

"They are not silly!" John said defensively, glaring at Sherlock. The detective merely smirked as he began playing softly, and John sighed heavily. He sat there silently for a few moments, then grabbed his cane and stood up. He limped into Sherlock's room, where he was now keeping some of his clothing, and put on his shoes. He grabbed a jacket and his wallet from the nightstand, then walked back into the living room. Sherlock was still sitting at the table, violin in hand, eyes staring at nothing.

"Do you need anything?" Sherlock shook his head, and so John left the flat. He had barely made it outside before he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. As he climbed into a taxicab he pulled out the device and saw that he'd gotten a text from Sherlock:

_Actually yes, bring milk. SH ___


	20. Twenty

"Would you hurry up John?" Sherlock shouted from downstairs. "We're going to be late!"

"Don't rush me Sherlock!" John shouted back. He felt bad for yelling, and for being the cause of their tardiness, but it had taken him a while to get dressed. He wasn't quite used to the cast yet, and he had refused to let Sherlock help dress him. "I'm almost ready anyway." He turned away from the door and looked over his appearance in the mirror hanging on Sherlock's bedroom wall. Moments later he heard angry footsteps coming down the hall, and Sherlock soon burst into his room.

"I told you John I-" he stopped suddenly, so John turned around to see what had caught the detectives attention. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock was staring at John himself, mouth slightly agape, his eyes scanning his attire. John felt self conscious under his penetrating stare, and stood frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

"Um, Sherlock? You alright?" John's question was paired with nervous laughter as the doctor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Sherlock blinked his eyes a few times, then cleared his throat and met John's gaze.

"Yes, I'm fine. It's just…I've never seen you in a suit before." He reached up to straighten his already straight collar and brushed some invisible lint from his jacket. "You look very nice." John's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. Sherlock rarely gave compliments, so he had no idea how to respond to this. He cleared his throat and shot the detective a warm smile.

"Thanks. So do you." He gestured to Sherlock's outfit: black trousers and jacket, paired with a white shirt and black tie. Aside from the tie, his outfit wasn’t very different from the clothing he wore on a usual basis, but John felt the need to compliment his attire as a response to the compliment that had been bestowed upon himself. Sherlock gave John a charming smile as he played with the buttons on his suit.

"Do you think so?" John nodded his head, unable to take his eyes off of Sherlock's eyes. The two men stood there staring at each other with grins on their faces for quite some time before they both simultaneously remembered that they had a party to get to. There was a lot of throat clearing and feet shuffling as the two made their way downstairs and out of the flat.

_____________________

By the time they'd made it to Lestrade's flat, the party had already been in full swing. Some kind of "easy listening" music was playing softly in the background, and the main room was filled with people, many of whom John remembered seeing around Scotland Yard.

John decided to set up camp in the kitchen near the snack table while Sherlock searched for a place to put their coats. After five minutes of munching on finger foods and waiting for Sherlock to appear, John began to consider going looking for him. The flat wasn't very sizeable, but they'd never been here before, and John hadn't told Sherlock where he would be. Perhaps he was looking for him that very moment. John bent down to grab his crutches and was about to get up from the chair he'd been sitting in and go searching for Sherlock when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"John? What are you doing here?" John looked up with his brow furrowed, but soon found himself smiling when he saw who was standing in front of him.

"Ollie! I could ask you the same thing!" Ollie grabbed a cup from off of the snack table, then pulled up a chair and sat down beside John.

"I came here with a girl who works at Scotland Yard," he said after taking a sip of his drink. When Ollie said this, John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Really? Have you got yourself a girlfriend?"

"God, no," Ollie said, taking another sip. "I just met her a week ago. She called me two days ago and asked if I'd be her plus one, and of course I agreed." He laughed. "I couldn't turn down an opportunity to party at the Detective Inspector's flat! You know, friends in high places and all that." He lowered his voice and began looking around suspiciously. "By the way, do you see him anywhere? I feel a bit bad being inside his house when I've never even met the guy. Kind of makes me feel like Nick Carroway or something."John chuckled, then popped a biscuit in his mouth.

"Well I just got here not too long ago, but I haven't seen him yet."

"How do you know him?"

"Well, ah, I guess you could say Sherlock and I are sort of…friends of his." Suddenly Ollie placed a hand on John's knee, luckily not on his injured leg, and his eyes grew slightly in size.

"Sherlock Holmes? Is he here?" John nodded his head and looked around.

"Yeah, he's around here somewhere."

"Oh, I'd love to meet him! I checked out his website not too long ago… He's got some pretty neat stuff on there."

"I'm sure he'd love to hear you say so, but that would only make his already inflated ego grow larger." They both laughed and Ollie gave John's knee a firm squeeze.

"Well, still, I'd like to meet him. You think you can introduce us?"

"Of course…as soon as I find him."

Almost as if on cue, Sherlock then appeared in front of them, his face gravely serious. He was staring at Ollie with his eyes narrowed, his gaze flickering down ever so often to where his hand was resting on John's knee.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice emotionless.

"The name's Oliver, but my friends call me Ollie."

"Very well then, Oliver. How do you know John?"

John reached up and put his arm around Ollie's shoulders.

"We went to university together, many years ago," John said, smiling at Sherlock.

"Hey, not that many!" Ollie said, patting John's knee lightly. "You're making me sound old." They both laughed, but when John glanced up and saw the stern look on Sherlock's face his laughter ceased. He removed his arm from around Ollie and felt him remove his hand from his knee. Ollie chugged the remainder of his drink and stood up. He held his hand out towards Sherlock and offered him a friendly smile. Sherlock took his hand gingerly and shook it, with a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you Mister Holmes."

"Same to you Oliver." Sherlock let go of Ollie's hand and placed his hands in his pockets. Ollie grabbed two cups and held one up with a smile on his face.

"Please, call me Ollie." He turned and smiled at John. "Now, I should probably get back to Victoria. I'll talk to you soon John. Maybe you can tell me what happened with that leg of yours." John smiled and waved him off, then looked to Sherlock, who was watching Ollie leave with a frown on his face.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock sat down in the seat recently vacated by Ollie and turned his entire body towards John, leaning in until their faces were mere inches apart.

"Why did you leave?" he asked, his voice slightly tense and irritated.

"What do you mean? I didn't leave."

"Yes you did. I went to go put our coats up and when I return to the front door you're nowhere to be found." John was fighting hard to pay attention to the words Sherlock was saying, but all he could think about was how close their lips were. All he would have had to do was lean forward just a little bit more and-

"John, are you even listening to me?" John then realized he'd been staring at Sherlock's mouth, and that he had completely zoned out.

"I'm sorry to have upset you," he said. Sherlock sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

"I’m not upset John. I just…was a bit concerned that you'd disappeared. But I see now that you're fine and everything's fine."

"Good," John said, patting Sherlock's leg. "Now, relax for a bit why don't you? We are at a party, after all. Here," he said, reaching towards the table and grabbing a plastic cup, "have a drink." He handed it to Sherlock, who sniffed it once and pretended to gag. John rolled his eyes, but when he saw the smile on Sherlock's face he chuckled.

"Oh come on Sherlock. You're at a party. It's a social custom to consume alcohol when at a social gathering like this one."

"You're not drinking."

"Because I don't want to be limping around on these crutches drunk." There was a look of hurt that briefly flashed through Sherlock's eyes, and John almost regretted saying what he did. After a while of Sherlock staring intently at the cup, he sighed and dropped his head.

"Very well then, if it would please you."

"And it would, very much so." Sherlock continued to hold the cup at eye level and squinted at it.

"Perhaps the alcohol will make the night slightly more bearable." Sherlock brought the cup to his lips and slowly turned it upwards, and as he was doing so John noticed Detective Inspector Lestrade walking up to them with a smile on his face.

"Hey, glad you could make it!" He held out his hand, which John shook, and nodded towards Sherlock, who had just emptied his cup of its contents.

"Are you enjoying yourselves so far?"

"Yes," John said, "very much so." Lestrade crossed his arms and gave him a strange look. "What?"

"If you two are having so much fun, then why are you huddled together at the snack table?" John opened his mouth, but Lestrade continued speaking. "Come with me, there are a few people I'd like you to meet. They're helping me with a case…" he sent a sideways glance in Sherlock's direction. "Since my usual helper has apparently been too busy playing board games with his flat mate to assist with any cases." Sherlock glared at Lestrade, but he only smiled in return. "Come on Sherlock, I'm sure you'll find it interesting. It's a serial killer. Four victims so far, no cause of death can be found for any of them. No sort of wounds or poison found anywhere, no internal damage either."

John glanced over at Sherlock and could tell by his face that he was intrigued, but trying not to show it. John nudged him with his elbow, and he glanced over at him.

"Come on Sherlock. I know you're dying to get back to work." Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, but stood up and helped John to stand while Lestrade held his crutches.

"By the way," Lestrade began as he was handing John his crutches, "Anderson's over there. Just a heads up for Sherlock." John laughed while he got himself settled, then looked over at Sherlock, who looked like he should have had smoke coming out of his ears. He looked down at John, then to Lestrade, and grabbed another cup from the snack table before they headed into the living room.

________________________

Two and a half hours later, John and Sherlock were fighting their way up the stairs to their flat. The task was proving to be quite difficult, due to the fact that John wasn't comfortable with using crutches to get up stairs yet, and also because Sherlock could barely hold himself up straight. He'd only had the two drinks at the party, so he wasn't drunk, yet he still couldn't take more than a few steps without having to stop and lean against the wall for support. John had yet to figure out how his balance had been so negatively affected, and why it had been the only thing to be affected.

They eventually made it to the top of the stairs, and John managed to unlock the door and get both him and Sherlock into Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock flopped down onto the mattress, and John sat on the other side of the bed, removing his shoes. He then leaned back against the headboard and stared at Sherlock, who was in the process of trying to sit up and take off his shoes simultaneously. Once he'd managed to get his shoes off he sat up beside John, his back resting against the headboard. He slowly let out a breath and closed his eyes.

"That was absolutely horrendous."

"Oh come on Sherlock, it wasn't that bad." The look of disbelief Sherlock had then given John was incredibly comical, but John fought the urge to laugh while Sherlock began talking.

"John, you can't be serious." John just shrugged and looked away.

"You do understand that you didn't have to go."

"Yes I did."

"Oh?" Sherlock shot a sideways glance in John's direction and nodded his head.

"If I hadn't gone you wouldn't have, am I right?" John started to disagree, but when he thought about it, he realized it was true. If Sherlock had been adamant about staying in, John would have stayed in with him.

"Well…" he said slowly, "why does it matter that I went?"

"Did you enjoy yourself John?"

"Well, yes actually. I did." Sherlock turned and swung his legs off of the bed and stood up, wobbling a bit while he tried to regain his balance. He walked over to his wardrobe and opened it.

"Well, there you go."

"I don't understand." Sherlock pulled out a white t-shirt and a pair of loose trousers, then closed the wardrobe. As he began to undress he spoke.

"I wanted you to have fun." John was trying hard not to stare at Sherlock's bare back, illuminated by the light coming from a bedside table lamp, the only light in the room.

"There are other ways to have fun, you know." Sherlock sighed heavily as he pulled the t-shirt over his head and began to take off his belt.

"Yes, but…" he sighed. "Just think about it, John. Before tonight you hadn't left the flat in days. Since we've returned from the hospital you've done nothing but stay in the living room and watch television, and occasionally play a board game. Surely that gets tiresome after a while." John wanted to say that he was never bored, because Sherlock had always been there with him, and that was what he cared most about, but he kept quiet and let Sherlock keep talking. "I doubt you'd want to be limping around a crime scene, so Lestrade's party was perfect."

"And why do you care so much about whether or not I'm having fun?" Sherlock sighed again and pulled his trousers down. John's felt his eyes widen slightly, and he was glad that Sherlock was too busy trying not to fall over while getting dressed to see his face.

"Because…" he said quietly, pulling the loose pants up to his waist. "Because it's my fault that you haven't been able to go anywhere you want, or even sleep in your own bed." John thought again about telling Sherlock that he had come to like sleeping in his bed, but knew it would be better to keep his mouth shut.

"Sherlock, you make it seem like you've ruined my life or something. It's only a broken leg. It's okay."

"Don’t you try to tell me it's all okay," Sherlock said, his voice suddenly angry. He turned around to face John, and his face was a mix of frustration and guilt. "Every night since the accident I've had to relive seeing you hurt, lying in that stretcher or the hospital bed." He sighed and ran his hands over his face. "Seeing you like that was worse than any nightmare I've ever had…because it was real."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"That accident was a nightmare come to life for me, John. Of course, you say you're fine now… but-"

"But what? What about your nightmares?" John thought back to the first time Sherlock had had a nightmare. He'd called out his name, twice. And if his memory served him right, he'd called out his name a few other times after that. Could it be true that Sherlock's nightmares had all been about him? "Sherlock are you telling me they've all been about-"

"You. Yes." He sat down on the bed and wiggled underneath the covers. John hesitated, then slid underneath as well. He turned on his side to face Sherlock, who was lying on his back with his hands resting on his stomach.

"In each dream… something happens to you, and there's nothing I can do to stop it." His voice was barely a whisper now. "And…and I always end up losing you." His voice broke on the last sentence, and he rolled his eyes. He let out a breath and shook his head. "It's awful, John. Just terrible." John could tell that Sherlock was getting worked up, which wasn't good, so he reached over and placed a hand on Sherlock's. Sherlock turned his head to the side and stared at John, his face completely blank, and John offered him a smile.

"It's okay though. I'm fine, and I'm right here. Nothing's going to change that." Sherlock just stared at him for a moment longer, then freed one hand from underneath John's to turn off the lamp. Just as John was closing his eyes he felt a hand resting on top of his, gently patting it.

"Good."


	21. Twenty One

The next morning John awoke to the sound of a heartbeat drumming in his ear. As he lay there with his eyes closed, not yet fully awake, the gentle thumping threatened to lull him back to sleep. He probably would have drifted back out of consciousness if he hadn't become aware of a strange sensation on the back of his head. It felt as if someone was playing with his hair, but due to the fact that his hair was rather short it felt more like a scalp massage than anything.

John should have been more concerned with the fact that he had no idea whose hand it was, or why there was a heart beating so loudly in his ear, but at the moment he was too comfortable to care. For a while he lay there, completely still, enjoying the feel of fingers in his hair, an arm draped over his torso, and a deep voice humming softly in his ear.

Wait, what? John's eyelids flew open and he found himself staring at darkness. He became painfully aware of a weight on his right arm, and the fact that whatever he was resting his head on was moving, slowly, rhythmically, as if it were breathing. John reached up and placed his free hand on the surface his head was resting on, and felt it tense up. The heartbeat in his ear sped up a bit as well. It was then that John realized it was Sherlock's chest his head was resting on, that it was Sherlock's slender fingers softly tousling his hair, that is was Sherlock's voice that had been humming in his ear. Of course, once he moved all movement and sound ceased to exist.

"Are you awake John?" Sherlock whispered, his voice barely audible, and gentle enough to not have woken John in case he was still asleep. A few brief moments of silence passed as John debated whether he should answer or not. As pleasant as it was for him to be curled up against Sherlock like this, he knew it was wrong. Flat mates didn't cuddle in the morning, even if they'd spent the previous night asleep in the same bed. After all, that had only been because Sherlock was too tired and too unsteady on his feet to go out into the living room, and John's leg wouldn’t allow him to sleep on the couch.

"Erm, yeah," he said, his voice still groggy with sleep. He removed his hand from Sherlock's chest and rubbed his eyes. He then yawned and let his hand rest on his own chest. He held his breath and waited for Sherlock to pull away, but he remained still. All he did was remove his hand from John's hair and let out a slow breath.

"Sleep well?" Sherlock asked, and the gruffness of the voice voice sent shivers down John's spine. He felt his heart skip a beat, and was glad his head was on Sherlock's chest and not the other way around, so Sherlock couldn't tell.

"Yes, actually," he said when he realized he'd been asked a question. "Did you?" He tilted his head upwards and stared at Sherlock, and saw the half smile that appeared on his face when he glanced down at John and nodded his head slightly.

"Very." John felt a blush creeping up, and turned away so Sherlock wouldn't see. A few moments of silence passed with neither of them moving or speaking. With his head turned, John could see that the room had now been bathed in warm sunlight, and he smiled as he stared out the window at the morning sky. He didn't make any effort to untangle himself from Sherlock, who didn't seem to be planning on moving any time soon either. It was strange for John, as he didn't believe Sherlock to be one so comfortable with such closeness, yet when he looked up at the detective his facial expression was perfectly serene. It was only when Sherlock glanced down at John and caught him staring that he seemed to grow a bit flustered. His eyes darted around the room and he cleared his throat nervously. John let out a small sigh and began to pull away, thinking that Sherlock had finally had enough, but to his surprise Sherlock stayed put, trapping John's arm beneath his body.

"Breakfast?" Sherlock asked suddenly, appearing to nearly have surprised himself with the way he blurted it out. The inner parts of John's eyebrows were turned upwards as he stared at Sherlock, who was staring off into space, his facial expression emotionless.

"What?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged and looked down at him.

"Breakfast. Do you want any?" A string of unintelligible sounds came from John's lips before he was able to answer Sherlock's simple question.

"I suppose. What do you have in mind?"

"I believe we still have some eggs and sausage..." he trailed off and glanced upwards. "Maybe bacon. I'm sure we have bread if you want toast. I know it's not much but it's something, yes?"

"Yeah," John said. Sherlock sat up, freeing John's arm and allowing him to do the same. He yawned and stretched, and when he opened his eyes he saw Sherlock standing beside the bed. John hadn't even noticed him get up. He raised an eyebrow at him.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock stared at him like he didn't understand John's question.

"To the kitchen…" John stared at him for a moment longer until he finally understood what was going on. He blamed the slow speed of his mental processes on the fact that he just woke up, and grinned at Sherlock.

"Are you going to cook breakfast?" he asked. John thought he saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch, but he wasn't completely sure. Sherlock nodded and folded his arms across his chest.

"Problem?" John shook his head vigorously.

"No, no. Not at all! Just don't burn the flat down like you almost did that one time." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, who laughed. Sherlock then turned to walk out the room, but John called his name. He paused in the doorway and stared at John expectantly. "Why are you doing this?" Sherlock shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

"Why not? I'm a decent mood this morning and feel like being nice. I don't understand why you're questioning this." To be honest with himself, John didn't know why he was questioning it either. Perhaps it was just too good to be true, getting to spend the night in the same bed as Sherlock, waking up cuddled next to him, and now having breakfast made for him. He found himself smiling as he shook his head.

"I'm not. But I must say I've never seen you in such a good mood when you've just woken up."

"Well this is the first night in a while I've had a decent night's sleep. I think that has something to do with it." John nodded his head and got out of bed. He looked down and realized he was still wearing the suit he'd worn to the party and sighed. After glancing up at Sherlock and seeing the expression on his face, John felt his face get hot.

"I think I'll just, take a quick shower and change." Sherlock stared at John with his lips slightly parted, completely silent for a brief moment before he seemingly snapped out of whatever trance he was in and nodded his head.

"Yes, and I'll just…get started on breakfast." Sherlock then left the room, and John picked up his crutches from the floor and limped to the small stack of clothes he'd placed in a corner of Sherlock's room. He carefully bent down and picked up a jumper and trousers, then headed towards the bathroom.

When John walked into the kitchen, feeling completely refreshed from his shower and hair still a bit damp, Sherlock seemed to be finishing up with the cooking. He was currently focused on cooking several sausages in a pan, and John saw a plate full of eggs and bacon sitting on the counter nearby. He walked over and grabbed a fork, then took a bite of the eggs, humming in appreciation.

"Compliments to the chef," he said, holding up the empty fork. Sherlock's head whirled around to face John and he squinted at him. He opened his mouth and sucked in a breath, and John prepared for Sherlock to start yelling at him about how he shouldn't be eating already if he hasn't finished cooking, or how he should have washed his hands first, or something of that nature, but he never did. Instead, he offered a small smiled and nodded his head.

"Thank you."

He turned back towards the stove and resumed cooking, and John watched him as he did so. His hair was still a bit messy from sleeping, and he was still wearing the t-shirt and pants he'd slept in. John guessed he planned on changing and showering after breakfast.

John decided to make some coffee for them while Sherlock cooked, and once that was done they sat at the kitchen table, which was mostly clear of any experiment-related objects, and ate. Sherlock realized he'd forgotten to make the toast, but that had taken no time to take care of. John couldn't help but smile as he stared across the table at Sherlock, who was looking down at his half-eaten plate, stabbing at his eggs with his fork with a look of intense concentration on his face.

"So, what do you think about that case Lestrade was telling us about?" John asked when he finished his meal. When he looked up and saw the strange look on Sherlock's face he sighed.

"Sherlock…?" John was seriously hoping that he wouldn't have to try and convince Sherlock to help with the case. He didn't want to ruin such a great morning with a petty argument. Sherlock held his gaze for several moments, then looked down and placed the fork he was holding on his plate.

"I have several theories that need testing. of course, they would require the use of some equipment we don't have here so-"

"Sherlock don't tell me you're not going to take the case you’re so obviously interested in because you'd have to leave the flat."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Oh? What were you going to say?"

"Just that I was planning on heading down to St. Bart's today so I could do some testing." There was an awkward silence that followed Sherlock's statement and John felt his face getting hot. He looked down at his empty place, then sheepishly up at Sherlock, who was smirking at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, and Sherlock's smirk turned into a confused frown.

"For what?"

"For…saying… oh, never mind." John started to get up so he could wash his plate, but Sherlock was standing before he could even grab his crutches, taking the plates off the table and walking over to the sink. John had managed to get up and hobble over to where Sherlock was standing in the time it took him to wash John's plate. He leaned up against the counter and watched as Sherlock placed the plate to the side and began washing his fork. For a while the only sound in their flat was that of water running.

"So," John said slowly while Sherlock was scraping the leftover food from his plate into the rubbish bin. He wanted to say something about how wasteful it was to do so, but he had something more important he wanted to discuss. Sherlock finished scraping the food off and turned back to the sink to wash the plate. For a while John's eyes remained fixed on Sherlock's large hands, now wet and covered with soap, completely forgetting he'd even said anything until Sherlock turned his attention away from washing dishes to look up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"So…?" he asked. John's eyes snapped up from his hands and his face got hot. If he had been so enthralled watching Sherlock wash a plate he knew there was a problem. He cleared his throat and tried to smile.

"You said you got a decent night's sleep last night." Sherlock nodded his head and looked back down into the sink.

"Your statement is correct." John scooted a tad closer and nudged Sherlock with his elbow.

"Does that mean no nightmares?"

"John you were there, you can answer the question yourself." John pressed his lips together in a firm line and nodded his head. Sherlock finished washing the dishes then picked up a towel and dried his hands. He leaned sideways on the counter, facing John, who had his head turned away. He heard Sherlock chuckle quietly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock place the towel on the counter behind him and leave the room.

______________________

Since it seemed that Sherlock's sleeping with John helped to dissipate his nightmares, they'd agreed to try sharing a bed every night to see if they could completely eliminate them. After about three weeks of sharing a bed every night, Sherlock' s nightmares seemed to have subsided. John had been trying to keep track of how often they'd come, but after a full week without the slightest hint of a nightmare he'd stopped. John's leg had healed enough where he was able to stop using crutches and could get along just fine using a cane. He hated having to use the thing again but at least it meant he was on his way to a full recovery.

Sherlock was back to working on cases, and John couldn’t remember the last time he'd seen him so happy. Though, he had to admit he missed having Sherlock hanging around the flat all day. Of course, there was the occasional text from him to check up on John and make sure he hadn't tripped in the bathroom or something, but other than that there was no communication between them during the day. The only time John would see him was when at night when they went to bed, if Sherlock had decided to sleep that night.

John tried every night to convince Sherlock to get some sleep, telling him that it was important for his mental processes and other things like that in an effort to coax Sherlock underneath the covers with him, but it didn't work every night. The nights John spent sleeping alone he didn’t get much sleep. Of course, he didn't get much sleep on the nights Sherlock came to bed either, as he spent a great deal of time watching the detective sleep, trying to memorize each and every detail of his perfect face. He'd always tried to get his fill at night since he knew that in the morning when he woke Sherlock would most likely be gone, and he wouldn't see him again until right before bed…if he was lucky.

It was becoming harder and harder to live with such strong feelings for Sherlock, knowing that they would never be reciprocated and that he was only hurting himself by allowing his 'crush' to go on for so long. Yet, no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get those pesky thoughts of his flat mate out of his head. He often caught himself daydreaming about those nearly translucent eyes that quite possibly also held every colour known to man in them, or he found himself wondering what it would be like to have those perfect, pink bow shaped lips pressed against his own, those long slender fingers buried in his hair like they had been that glorious morning after Lestrade's party. John tried to accept the fact that he would never know what it would be like to experience anything close to what his daytime fantasies had planted in his mind, and so every time he saw Sherlock's face or even thought of him, there was a tightening in John's chest that he hadn't figured out how to eradicate. Until then, he'd decided to settle for late nights filled with longing and days filled with boredom and agony. Keeping his feelings for Sherlock so tightly bottled up was becoming a more difficult task as the days went on, and John wasn't sure how much longer he could go on like this before he lost his mind.

However, one night as John lay on his side, one arm tucked underneath Sherlock and the other resting on his chest, his head laying on Sherlock's shoulder, his eyelids beginning to get heavy, he got an idea.

Very slowly he tilted his head up, until his nose was just brushing against the side of Sherlock's face. He held his breath, and stretched out his lips just enough for them to briefly touch the skin on Sherlock's cheek.

There was no response from Sherlock. No elevated heart rate or change in breathing. No movement or sound. John slowly let out the breath he'd been holding and closed his eyes. As he drifted off to sleep there was a smile on his face, and for that brief moment he was unable to feel the pain in his heart.

The next morning Sherlock didn't say anything, and for that John was partially relieved. In the very back of his mind a part of him had been hoping for Sherlock to have felt the kiss, to have brought it up at the kitchen table where they'd sat drinking coffee, but there was also a huge part of him that had hated even thinking about how that conversation might go. John would just have to accept the fact that Sherlock wasn't 'wired' that way, and even if he was he wouldn't think that way about John.

And John continued to think this, because he didn't know that the very next night, a pair of bow shaped lips placed a gentle kiss on his temple while he slept.


	22. Twenty-Two

"John, so nice to see you."

These were the words John was greeted with when Mycroft opened the door to his office. There was a smile on his face, though John knew that behind his friendly façade, Mycroft was not happy at John's unexpected visit. Nevertheless, he smiled back and walked inside when Mycroft stepped out of the way.

"Please, take a seat." John did as he was told and sat down in a plush armchair in a corner of the room. Mycroft closed the door, then sat across from John in the other one. He crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap as he stared at John. John stared back for a moment before realizing that he should probably be the one to speak first, since he was the one who had requested that they meet. He knew it was short-notice but he'd really needed to see Mycroft.

It had been over two months since they'd gone to Lestrade's party, and though Sherlock's nightmares seemed to be gone for good and he was back to working on cases, John still felt like something wasn't right with him. He had been acting very secretive lately, like there was still something he was keeping from him, and John had run out of ideas as to how to get Sherlock to tell him whatever information he was withholding. He figured that out of all the people in the world who could help him with tips on how to get information out of Sherlock, his brother would be the best person to go to. So, that morning when Sherlock had taken off to Scotland Yard to meet with Lestrade, John had made a quick phone call, and now here he was, sitting in front of Mycroft, twiddling his thumbs while he searched for the right words to say.

"I suppose you'd like to know why I asked to talk with you."

"Something's wrong with Sherlock, and you want my help figuring out what." John looked to Mycroft, who had his usual haughty look upon his face. John let out a sigh and nodded his head.

"Yes, well, sort of. You see… he's been acting a bit strange lately." Mycroft chuckled without humour.

"John, it's Sherlock," he scoffed.

"I know, but I'm not talking about his usual strangeness." John said, slightly annoyed by Mycroft's tone of voice. He wasn't particularly fond of the way everyone spoke about Sherlock, and the fact that his own brother would speak about him in such a manner was even more appalling. Not to mention the way Mycroft always spoke to John as if he were some sort of caveman. He was quite insulted, but continued anyway. "He's been acting stranger than usual. He's a lot…happier and more pleasant to be around, which I wouldn't be complaining about if he hadn't become so secretive as well. You see, he never lets me see his phone, not even for a second. He always has it with him and he's been using it more than usual, but when I ask him about it he just looks at me like I'm insane and then won't speak to me for an hour. He just seems to be more distant and reserved as well. I know he's sort of like this normally, but I feel like something's changed. I've tried talking to him, but I'm not getting anywhere."

"I see…" Mycroft said, leaning back slightly, raising his hand to stroke his chin. It seemed his interest had been piqued. John smiled to himself before he began talking again.

"I know he's keeping something from me, and I'd like your help in figuring out just what it is he's hiding, or at least tell me how to get Sherlock to, um, open up."

"Have you tried getting him drunk?" Mycroft suggested. "He tends to lose what little bit of a filter he has when intoxicated."

"Well, we went to a party a while ago and he had a few drinks there. But even then I didn't get much out of him. He only told me about the nightmares he's been having."

"Nightmares?"

"Yes. He had these terrible nightmares for quite some time. He used to wake up in a cold sweat, often shouting and sometimes thrashing about. It was quite awful really, but they've gone now." John decided not to tell Mycroft that the nightmares were all about him, or that he'd been sharing a bed with his brother for the past two months in an effort to keep the dreams at bay. "Do you know of anything that may help me find out whatever secret it is Sherlock's keeping?" Mycroft made a face and tilted his head slightly, glancing up as if in deep thought.

"Well," he said, "when he was younger and threw a tantrum, which was often, Mother used to give him Chamomile tea to calm him down. Perhaps if you gave him some he would be more relaxed and be more willing to talk."

Though John wasn't too sure as to how tea would help much of anything, he decided Mycroft did know Sherlock best, and that he should trust him. He made a mental note to stop by the store on his way back to the flat. Mycroft's phone began ringing, and he excused himself to take the call, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

He tried to think of possible reasons for Sherlock to suddenly become so secretive. Of course, he'd never been an open book, but it had never been this bad. John started to wonder if it had something to do with them sleeping in the same bed every night. Perhaps with John invading his personal space at night, Sherlock was trying to compensate for that by staying so distant and inaccessible during the day. John feared that Sherlock had possibly felt that one kiss he'd given him that night. Though it had only been that one night, and that was quite some time ago. Still, it was around that time when Sherlock had started acting strange again.

John thought back to when the secretiveness had all began. He and Sherlock had been sitting in the living room, John on his laptop and Sherlock playing the violin, when Sherlock's phone had lit up. Since it was sitting closest to John at the time he'd picked it up and given it to him. While he passed the device to Sherlock he'd noticed the text he'd received was from an unknown number. When he'd asked about it Sherlock had basically ignored him, taking a moment to respond before shoving his phone in the pocket of the trousers he'd been wearing and resuming his playing of the violin. John remembered how the song he was playing had changed. Before Sherlock had received the text he'd been playing a simple classical piece one might play at a recital, but after the text the song Sherlock had played sounded like it belonged on the soundtrack of a romance movie. It had been quite unsettling for John, and for the next few days all he could think about was who that might have been. Sherlock hasn't let John hold his phone since that day.

That was bad enough, but then Sherlock had started spending more time outside of the flat. John would wake up and find that Lestrade had texted him asking where Sherlock was, and he wasn't in the flat. Whenever Sherlock did return from wherever it was that he had been he was always in a great mood, smiling and laughing and being an absolute joy to live with, and John didn't like it one bit.

He liked moody, sarcastic, cynical Sherlock, not this man who offers to make him dinner and watch television together. He missed the narrowed eyes and steepled fingers resting beneath Sherlock's chin as he lay on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, and the tantrums that were thrown whenever Sherlock lost to John while playing any board game. Now it was just a smile, a friendly pat on the back and Sherlock saying 'Good game John, care for another round?' It was terrible.

When Mycroft returned and noticed the frown on John's face he asked him about it, and John told him everything, not mentioning how much he missed old Sherlock. He then sat silently and watched Mycroft as he took in what had been said to him. His eyes were cast downward, and his mouth was set in a firm line. After a few moments had passed he looked up at John with what was almost a half smile on his face.

"Well, if we were talking about anyone but Sherlock I'd say he's in love. But since we are talking about my brother I'm not sure." John just nodded his head while he talked, and when the words finally sank in his eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Wait, what? Love?"

"Yes. Love. Everything you've just described to me: the disappearing, the strange texts, the happier demeanor are all signs that point to having a secret lover." John clasped his hands together and looked down at the plush carpet.

"I see." He felt an aching in his chest as he thought about what Mycroft had said. It all made sense now, and John started to regret coming to Mycroft. He would have preferred to remain ignorant to this his entire life rather than feel this way. Rejection hurts, and even though Sherlock had never rejected him, (how could he if he didn’t even know John felt this way?), it still hurt as much as it had when Tabitha had left him sitting all alone on that picnic blanket.

Once John remembered where he was, sitting in Mycroft's office right across from him, he straightened his shoulders and met his curious gaze with a firm look of his own. As he looked into Mycroft's emotionless eyes a question came to him.

"Um, has Sherlock ever…" John trailed off, unsure of how to phrase his question. "Has he ever been in a relationship before?"

" No." Mycroft tiled his head back slightly, as if he had just remembered something. "Well…" He shook his head. "No. Not really."

"Not really?" John asked, his brow furrowing as he looked to Mycroft. When Mycroft saw John staring at him he smiled. Or, sneered was more like it. John wasn't sure if Mycroft was actually capable of producing a genuine smile, for any person or purpose.

"No need to be jealous John," he said, "They only went to prom together."

"Who did?" There was a brief pause as John's mind processed all of what Mycroft had said. "Jealous?"

"Her name was Harriet. Harriet Turner."

"I'm not jealous."

"It was just prom though. I don't think he ever spoke to her afterwards." John sat back in his seat and placed his hands in his lap. There was a knock at the door, and Mycroft went to go answer it. While he sat alone waiting for Mycroft to return John thought more about the possibility of Sherlock being in anything close to a relationship, and fought to keep a straight face as he did so.

"John," Mycroft called from the door, "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure, thank you."

Mycroft soon returned with two cups of tea and the two began chatting more about Sherlock. Somehow over the course of their conversation the topic changed to stories from Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood. John learned that Sherlock had actually gone to a summer camp one summer when he was ten, and hated it. He said they'd constantly receive letters from Sherlock begging them to 'rescue him from the wooded prison in which he had been placed'. Apparently he tried to escape, and was nearly successful. The only reason he had been caught was the fact that he used a pay phone to call his counselor and brag about his brilliant escape plan. It hadn't been very hard for them to figure out just what town he was in and what phone he was using. He'd been returned to the camp later that day.

Mycroft then told John about the time Sherlock came in second place in some science competition and then nearly burned the school down with his project on purpose in protest of the judges' scores. He told John about Sherlock's childhood dream of becoming a pirate, and how he would play along with his make believe games on the weekends if he didn't have too much schoolwork to do. He told him about how for the entire eighth year of his life Sherlock would only eat Shreddies, and nothing else. He told John about the time he'd broken his arm after trying to steal a bird's nest from a tree and his resulting fear of falling. He'd then gone on to tell John about the time their family went to an amusement park and Sherlock cried on the Ferris wheel. John and Mycroft shared many laughs at the expense of young Sherlock, and by the time John left Mycroft's office he had enough blackmail material to make Sherlock become his own personal slave.

"Please do let me know if you do manage to squeeze anything interesting out of him," Mycroft told John as he walked him to the door.

"Will do."

"And John? Try not to get too jealous. Trust me, you have absolutely no reason to be."

"Of course I don't," John said frowning and narrowing his eyes at Mycroft, who just smirked an opened the door. "I'm not jealous."

"Please, feel free to come back any time," Mycroft said, still smirking. John nodded his head in response, and Mycroft held up a finger. "But do give more of a warning before you show up."

"Yes, sorry about that. I just wanted to talk while Sherlock was out."

"I understand. Goodbye John."

"Goodbye."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

When John returned to the flat, two plastic bags in his left hand, his cane in his right, he was happy to find that the flat was as empty as it had been when he'd left. He put away the few groceries he had purchased as quickly as he could and sat down in his armchair. He turned on the TV and was about to take his shoes off he heard the door open.

He immediately sat back and tried to look as natural as possible, though he was quite sure he looked like he'd just killed ten people. Of course, Sherlock probably wouldn't have been too upset about that, if the murders had been done in a fascinating way.

Sherlock appeared beside John's armchair and smiled down at him. John attempted to smile back, then looked away.

"Hello," he managed to say. Sherlock took off his coat and placed it on the sofa, then grabbed his laptop off of the coffee table and sat down. For a while they sat there in silence, with Sherlock typing away at his laptop and John pretending to watch whatever it was on television at the moment. After an excruciating few minutes of silence, John decided he would try to start a conversation.

"So, anything interesting happen today?" he asked, not taking his eyes off of the television screen. When he heard Sherlock chuckle he turned in his seat to frown at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "Just, I've never known you to be one for small talk." John didn't reply, just shrugged and smiled at Sherlock, who smiled back. He opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off when Sherlock's phone started ringing. Sherlock's eyes flickered up briefly at John before he retrieved his phone from his pocket and held it up to his ear.

"Hello?" There was a brief pause while he listened to the person on the other end talk. Sherlock chuckled, and John felt a twang of jealousy in his chest as he remembered what Mycroft had said. 

"That sounds great." Another pause, then Sherlock sighed and lowered his voice. "I-I'm with John now."

At the mention of his name, John looked over at Sherlock, who was staring down at the floor. When he looked up and caught John's gaze he stood up. He mouthed a 'sorry' to John, then went into his room and closed the door.

John grabbed the TV remote and sat back in his seat. He was used to Sherlock ignoring him to text this mystery person who may or may not be his secret lover, but never before had he actually left the room to converse with them. It was bad enough that they'd been taking up so much of Sherlock's free time and so much of his attention, but at least Sherlock had been in the same room as John. If John was now going to be denied even having Sherlock's presence around due to this 'friend' of his, he was going to have a serious problem.

Oh, who was he kidding? His problem was already serious. John had never been so jealous in his life. He was more jealous now than he had been when he found out his ex-girlfriend had cheated on him for the last few months of their relationship, and he had been pretty angry then. He let out a breath and tried to relax himself, but it did no good. He started channel surfing, hoping to find something to take his mind off of Sherlock, though he knew that would be pointless as well.

___________

As the days went on, things went from bad to worse for John. Sherlock still talked to his friend on a regular basis, which only made John's jealously even worse. Due to his rising jealousy John had begun acting a bit hostile towards Sherlock, who in turn was hostile towards him and spent even more time talking to his "friend" instead of John. This only made John feel worse, and act worse, and the circle just kept going.

Eventually it reached the point where they barely even spoke, even if they still spent a decent amount of time together. John still made them tea in the afternoons, and they would sit in the living room and drink it, Sherlock sitting on the sofa and focusing all his attention on his phone, and John would pretend Sherlock wasn't even there.

Of course, John was always painfully aware of Sherlock's existence. His ears had become fine-tuned to the sound the sofa made when Sherlock would adjust his position, the sounds that his fingers made when they tapped on his phone screen, and the occasional heavy sigh he would give, most likely in an attempt to annoy John. John was never annoyed by Sherlock, though, not by his sighing at least. To him it was just a reminder that Sherlock was still there, living, breathing, existing. John had to admit, he would much rather have Sherlock there and sighing than not there at all. It was crazy, but John just may have fallen harder for Sherlock in the days they spent completely ignoring each other. That still didn't change the fact that he was also starting to go mad listening to the sounds of him breathing.

One afternoon when Sherlock was sighing much louder and much more often than usual, John decided that he'd had enough. He got up from his chair and went into Sherlock's room to get his jacket and shoes. He'd barely gotten out of Sherlock's room when he ran into Sherlock, who appeared to have been waiting for him in the small hallway in between Sherlock's room and the kitchen. John took a step back and avoided Sherlock's gaze.

"Going somewhere?" Sherlock asked, his voice low. John ignored the way his heart fluttered at hearing Sherlock speak for the first time in about a week and nodded his head. "Where?"

"I hardly think it's any of your business," John said, finally looking up into Sherlock' s eyes. They looked slightly less emotionless than usual, though they were still quite cold and a bit unfriendly. John looked away. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest, and John could almost hear the smirk in his voice.

"Well, someone's being a bit secretive." John's jaw dropped slightly and he stared at Sherlock.

"You're not serious." Sherlock took a step closer to John and furrowed his eyebrows.

"What?" John stood still for a moment, then sighed and pushed past Sherlock, making an effort to not let his hand linger on his chest for too long as he did so. He walked out into the living room and grabbed his phone. When he turned around Sherlock was standing behind him, arms still crossed, staring at John with a frown on his face.

"John..." his tone was cautious and questioning, as if he were talking to a toddler on the verge of a tantrum. Which, John almost was. If John didn't get out of that flat soon he had no idea what he would do, but he knew it wouldn't be good. Despite the many emotions currently welling up inside him, John managed to meet Sherlock's curious gaze with a firm gaze of his own.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John was proud of how calm he sounded, but for some reason his calms demeanor seemed to upset Sherlock. He stood up straighter and narrowed his eyes at John.

"Where are you going?"

"Why do you care?" John asked, a bit louder than he'd meant to. Sherlock winced at his harsh tone, but didn't back down. He took a careful step towards John, raising his hands slightly, much like a space traveler would to an alien to indicate that he'd come in peace.

"John, what's wrong?" His tone was gentle and quiet, and he was no doubt trying not to upset John further. Yet somehow, Sherlock's hesitance only managed to upset John more. He was starting to feel like the 'bad guy' though he'd done absolutely nothing wrong! It was preposterous. He felt his jaw clench and his hands were balled into fists at his sides.

"Oh nothing Sherlock, " he said, his voice shaking a bit out of anger. "Just that this is the first time you've really spoken to me in weeks and it's just to ask me where I'm going."

"I don't understand," Sherlock said, and by the look on his face John knew he was being honest. How could he possibly understand what John was feeling? He hadn't spent every night wrapped in the arms of the man he felt so strongly about, knowing that it meant absolutely nothing to him. He didn't have to spend every waking moment in agony, pining for the man who was sitting just across the room from him, acting as if he wasn't even aware of his existence. The past few weeks had been absolute torture for John, and he wanted nothing more than to scream from the highest rooftop that Sherlock was the cause of all his pain, of all the sleepless nights he'd had, that he just might be in-

"John. There's chamomile tea in the cupboard." John stared up at him, trying to comprehend just why Sherlock had felt the need to mention this mid-argument.

"What's that got to do with anything?" He asked, frowning at Sherlock.

"You've talked to Mycroft recently. About me." John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and avoided eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock took another step closer to him, and he fought the urge to push him back, or pull him closer until their lips met. John smiled despite himself. Even now, with an angry Sherlock looming over him he couldn't think about anything other than how much he wanted to kiss him. He wanted to slap him as hard as he could, then pin him up against the nearest wall and snog him until his knees went weak.

John had been so wrapped up in his little fantasy he hadn't realized Sherlock had spoken. He stared blankly at him, hoping for Sherlock to just give up on trying to get any information out of John, like he had given up trying to figure out who Sherlock's 'friend' was a while ago. Sherlock continued to stare at John, and it soon became obvious that Sherlock would not drop the subject.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"Tell me."

"Why should I?" John asked, taking an angry step towards Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John copied his facial expression. This only made Sherlock angrier, and when the look in his eyes changed from slightly perturbed to furious John began to fear for his life. For a while neither of them spoke, they just stood there, inches away from each other, in the middle of an impromptu staring contest. John was the first one to break the silence.

"I...I think I'll just go now."

He started to walk past Sherlock, but he reached out and grabbed his shoulder, pushing him back. John winced slightly, as it had been his bad shoulder Sherlock had grabbed. The angry look on Sherlock's face dissolved for a moment into an apologetic one, then the fury returned to his eyes.

"Look John," he began, obviously fighting hard to keep his voice even, "I don't know what in the world has gotten into you, and I'll let you leave and get fresh air or whatever it is you need to get over..." he waved his hands in the air. "whatever this is. But not before you tell me why you went to Mycroft."

"Well then," John said, crossing his arms. "Looks like I'll be staying here." Sherlock glared at him, and with each passing second John could feel a tension building up between them. He unfolded his arms and sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable storm of rage that was soon to come from Sherlock.

"Honestly John, you have got to be the most infuriating, frustrating, aggravating man I've ever met!" John kept a straight face upon hearing this, though on the inside he was dying after hearing Sherlock say such terrible things about him.

"Yeah well, right back at you!" he shouted, trying to match Sherlock' s level of intensity. "You act like me going to Mycroft once will bring on the next world war, yet for the last few weeks I've sat here in the background of your life while you run off to God-knows-where doing God-knows-what with God-knows-who and you've never heard me complain! Not once!"

"Oh? Is that what this is all about? You're jealous, aren't you?" John scoffed.

"You wish."

"Maybe I do." John stared up at Sherlock with wide eyes, but when he saw the completely expressionless look on his face, his anger quickly returned.

"No, Sherlock. Just, stop. I refuse to stand here and listen to you while you demean me by saying how irrelevant my concerns and worries are!"

"Then sit down." John took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You've got to be kidding me, Sherlock." Sherlock took a step towards him, and the movement only caused John to become angrier. "No, you stay back. I'm done with this. I'm done with all the secrecy and indifference."

"What are you talking about John?" Sherlock asked, coming close enough for John to feel his breath on his face as he spoke. "Honestly John, you act like I'm the only person who has secrets!"

As John stood there and listened to Sherlock begin what was no doubt a very outraged rant on secrecy, he began to feel something stirring in his abdomen. He'd gotten so angry with Sherlock over one little secret, and here he was hiding a massive secret of his own. How could he possibly be upset with Sherlock for texting a friend when he'd kept hidden for so long the fact that he was in love with him.

John stood there watching Sherlock's reddening face as he yelled at him, and all he could focus on were his lips and he was overcome with an intense feeling of something he didn't quite understand. Then his hands were moving and before he even realized what he was doing, he had grabbed the sides of Sherlock's face and did something he never thought he'd do in a million years: he kissed Sherlock.

Their lips crashed together with enough force to nearly knock them over, but that didn't matter at the moment. All John could think about was how incredibly soft Sherlock's lips were, just like he'd imagined they'd be. John didn't have much time to enjoy the feeling of those full lips pressed against his, as Sherlock had completely frozen stiff, and John soon realized what he'd done. He immediately let go of Sherlock's face and took a step back, staring up at him with his mouth hanging open. Sherlock was staring back at him with a look of pure shock etched on his features, and John immediately ran his hands over his face.

"I-I'm sorry. I-" He pushed past Sherlock and went to the front door. He struggled to open it with his shaking hands, but soon he was limping down the stairs as fast as he could and had reached the front door.

"John?"

He paused, and turned to look over his shoulder. Sherlock was standing at the top of the stairs, staring at him with the same surprised look on his face, lips slightly parted. John found it impossible to look into his eyes at the moment, so he turned back around and left the flat.

He wandered through the streets of downtown London for a bit, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. They'd had an argument, then he'd kissed Sherlock. He sighed and ran his hands over his face, shaking his head. How was he going to explain himself?

He could call it a heat of the moment thing, but what moment? They'd been arguing. Perhaps if they'd just solved a case he could get away with saying something like that, but not now. He needed time to think about it, but it was rather chilly outside and he didn't like walking with a cane much. He pulled out his phone and called the first person he could think of. Ollie answered after the third ring.

"John! How are ya?"

"Not so well, Ollie. I think I might need a place to stay for a bit."


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

For the next week or so John stayed at Ollie's house. He spent his time wallowing in self pity while Ollie worked, then at night he slept on Ollie's couch trying to get some sleep, and almost always failing. It seemed every time John closed his eyes he saw Sherlock. He saw Sherlock's angry face, yelling at him like he had just suggested they invade Russia in winter. He saw the look of surprise on his face after he'd kissed him. He saw Sherlock sitting on the sofa, completely immersed in his phone. And no matter what version of Sherlock he saw, it always hurt to see him. It was why John didn't leave Ollie's house for the entire time he stayed there. He didn't want to risk running into Sherlock anywhere. If he couldn't handle seeing him in his dreams, how was he supposed to handle seeing him in real life?

The first time he went into the outside world was to get his cast removed. It had been early in the morning, but John didn't mind. Ollie was able to give him a ride to St. Bart's, but couldn't stay with him as he had to get to work.

He was still trying to get used to walking with just the cane and no cast on when he ran into Mrs. Hudson. He had been walking up and down the hallway and had seen her standing outside someone's room.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he called out when he was sure he was within earshot. She looked up, and smiled when she saw John limping towards her.

"Oh, John! How are you?"

"Could be better, honestly." She gave him a knowing look, and he started trying to prepare himself for the conversation that was going to come.

"You're not at Baker Street."

"No, I'm um, I'm staying with a friend for a bit." John decided it would be better not to tell Mrs. Hudson just what friend he was staying with, just in case she talked to Sherlock about this run in. Not only did he not want to risk Sherlock showing up at Ollie's house when he's laying on the couch in nothing but a bath robe and eating ice cream like a heartbroken teenager, but he was pretty sure Sherlock wasn't too fond of Ollie. Mrs. Hudson nodded her head, then sucked in a breath.

"He's a mess John, an absolute wreck."

"He- what?" John asked, furrowing his brow and squinting at Mrs. Hudson.

"What happened?" She asked, reaching out to lightly touch John's shoulder. John felt his jaw clench as he looked down and shook his head.

"Nothing." Mrs. Hudson gave a noise of disbelief.

"Well, it sure doesn't seem like nothing. He hasn't left the flat since you did. I don't think he's eaten much either. I've gone up there several times to try and talk to him, but it's no use. He just sits on the sofa all day, staring at the door or his phone, like he's waiting for something. What he's waiting for I'm not one hundred percent sure, but I hope it shows up soon." She sighed and shook her head. "I hate seeing him like this, John. He looks so upset."

"Really?" John asked, genuinely surprised by this information. He couldn't imagine Sherlock behaving in such a way, though John had to admit if he'd been kissed by his flat mate, who claimed to be straight, in the heat of an argument he would be rather out of sorts as well. He sighed and ran his hands over his face. He really had no idea how to fix this. Mrs. Hudson gently rubbed his shoulder, and when he looked at her she gave him a comforting smile.

"John, I don't know what it is that has happened with you two, but I know you'll be fine." John gave her a sad smile and sighed.

"I wish I could say I believed you." He gave her a quick hug, then they parted ways. John returned to Ollie's house and set up camp in the living room. As he sank down into Ollie's plush sofa, he let out a frustrated sigh. He wasn't sure if he was upset or relieved that Sherlock seemed to be as bad off as he was. After a moment of deliberation, John decided he felt absolutely terrible that Sherlock was in such distress. He'd done absolutely nothing, yet he was suffering because John couldn't control his emotions.

About an hour after John had returned from the hospital, Ollie came home for lunch. He seemed to sense immediately that John was in a worse mood than usual, but also seemed to sense that he was in no mood to talk. He ate his lunch in the kitchen, and John remained on the sofa watching some soap opera he remembered his mother watching when he was little. When Ollie left he said goodbye, and John had simply grunted in response. After the door had shut he'd gotten up to make some tea, and when he noticed Ollie's house keys sitting on the kitchen counter he began to feel even worse than he already had been. John's mood had Ollie in such a rush to get out of his own home that he'd left his keys behind. Why was he being so impolite? Ollie was being nice enough to let John stay at his house, without even knowing why it was John needed a place to stay, and he was treating him so terribly. He sighed and let his head drop, allowing a fresh wave of self pity to wash over him.

There was a knock at the door, and John grabbed Ollie's keys before walking to answer it. He was surprised that it hadn't taken Ollie longer to realized he'd left his keys behind. He opened the door and started to apologize to Ollie about how mean he'd acted, but found that he was rendered speechless when he saw that it was Sherlock standing before him. Ollie's keys slipped from his grasp, but John didn't hear them hit the floor.

"John," Sherlock said in a hoarse whisper. He looked slightly startled, but only for a moment. He straightened up and stared directly into John's eyes with an intensity John had never seen before.

"Come back to Baker Street." John dropped his gaze and sighed.

"I... can't. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever, I don't know."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his tone both bewildered and forceful. John looked around, searching for something to look at other than Sherlock. His stomach was doing somersaults just from hearing him, from knowing that he was there, and so incredibly close. "John, look at me." He remained still. "John."

Sherlock actually sounded nervous. He sounded so incredibly...vulnerable. It was heartbreaking to hear him like this, but mostly confusing because he didn't understand why Sherlock was so upset.

Very slowly John lifted his eyes to look into Sherlock's. When he did so he immediately wished he hadn't. They were bloodshot. They looked tired and sad, and they looked so many other things that John couldn't describe using words from his known vocabulary.

"Come back, please."

"Sh- I can't."

"Why not?" Sherlock yelled, his brow furrowing. Despite the angry look on his face, John could still see the look of hurt in his eyes, and his heart nearly broke all over again. He sighed and shrugged.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me." His voice was firm, but there had still been a slight tremor that John couldn't ignore, no matter how much he wanted to.

"I can't come back because..." he drifted off, trying to find the right words to say. He ultimately decided that there was no 'right' way to say what he was about to and took in a deep breath, staring directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"I can't go back because you're there."

"What's wrong with me?" Sherlock asked, sounding incredibly insulted, which he had every right to be. John sighed and shrugged.

"Well, Sherlock, where do I begin? You're arrogant, stubborn, and childish." With each adjective John listed he saw Sherlock's face grow angrier and angrier, but he kept going. "You're impulsive and judgmental, but..." Sherlock's face softened. "But, you're brilliant, and gorgeous, and talented, and witty. And, you still have room somewhere in that magnificent brain of yours to remember my jumper size and what my favourite brand of crisps is. You're bloody perfect!" Sherlock stared at him in disbelief for a moment before that all-too-familiar look of anger came over his features. He bent over so that his eyes were level with John's before he started speaking in a voice so low John had to strain his ears to hear it.

"You're not making sense."

"You asked me a question, and I answered it!"

"Not very well I must say."

"Nobody asked you."

"John why won't you come back?"

"I just told you!"

"You did not!"

"I did!"

"John, why-"

"Because I love you, Sherlock!"

"And? I've been in love with you for months and I never left!"

"Yes, but-" Suddenly John's vocal chords ceased to function as he realized what he'd just said, and what they'd just admitted to each other. He watched with his mouth hanging open as the anger drained from Sherlock's face and was replaced with shock and surprise.

"You... what?" John asked quietly. Sherlock immediately straightened up and avoided eye contact with him.

"I- um," he sighed and covered his reddening face with his hands. "You heard me say it once, please don't make me say it again."

"No. Say it, or I'm staying here." Sherlock's jaw dropped and he stared at John with disbelief. His eyes were begging for John to change his mind, but there was no way that was going to happen. He needed this. He needed to hear it.

Finally, Sherlock sighed and his shoulders slumped.

"Alright fine," he said, looking up. "I love you John Watson." He let out a breath. "Happy now?"

John didn't reply. He just threw his arms around Sherlock and rested the side of his face against his chest. Without hesitation, Sherlock's arms encircled John as well and he pressed his cheek to the top of his head.

"All this time?" John asked. Sherlock's reply was a gentle hum and a tightening of his hold on John. John didn't speak again, and for a while they just stood in the doorway, locked in an embrace. John pulled away after several minutes, but only enough to place his hands on Sherlock's forearms. He was able to look up at Sherlock, who was smiling down at him with a look of what John now knew to be love showing in his eyes.

"Months?" Sherlock cast his eyes downward and nodded. John squeezed Sherlock's arms slightly and stared up at him, confused. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"The thought of finally gathering up the courage to say something only to have you reject me was...a bit off-putting. You know just as well as I do how much rejection can hurt." John's eyes flicked down to Sherlock's lips, then down to the floor.

"And yet you still rejected me."

"I did not reject you! You never gave me a chance to do anything. Forgive me for being a bit taken aback after you kissed me like that." John kept his eyes downcast and nodded, feeling incredibly embarrassed all of a sudden. Sherlock chuckled, and when John looked up he couldn't help but to laugh as well.

"Well," he said, fingers fiddling with the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, "Where do we go from here?"

"Well I was hoping you'd come back to Baker Street."

"Of course, Sherlock, but-"

"Or if you're hungry we could stop by Angelo's-"

"Sherlock!" John said, tightening his grip on Sherlock's forearms. He sighed. "I meant... I meant where do we go with, us?" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Oh. Well, as you know I'm a bit inexperienced when it comes to relationships...but I suppose here," he moved his right hand to grab John's left, and placed his other hand on John's shoulder, "is a good place to start." He moved his hand from John's shoulder to his cheek, and as John stared up into those gorgeous eyes of his he knew where this was going. He slid the fingers of the hand not currently being held by Sherlock into his messy curls and pulled him closer.

John's eyes fell shut just as their lips met. The kiss was slow and sweet, with Sherlock gently massaging John's hand with his thumb. John tightened the hold he had in Sherlock's hair, and the detective took it as an invitation to deepen the kiss. He pried John's mouth open and slipped his tongue inside. John smiled into the kiss, and felt Sherlock smiling as well. John managed to capture Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and sucked, earning a deep groan from Sherlock that he felt throughout his body. His heart was beating rapidly, pounding against his ribcage. He placed a hand on Sherlock's lower back and pulled him closer, so that he could feel Sherlock's equally as fast heartbeat against his chest.

After a while they had to separate to catch their breath, but even then they remained close, lips brushing against each other's sharing breaths, passing them back and forth.

"Well, isn't that sweet," a voice said, startling them both. They didn't let go of each other, but John did stand on the tips of his toes to peer over Sherlock's shoulder. He saw Ollie smiling at him, and couldn't help but to smile back. Sherlock rolled his eyes, then moved to stand beside John, draping an arm over his shoulders.

"Hello, Oliver."

"Sorry to interrupt, but I forgot my keys and, um... they're kind of..." he trailed off and pointed at the floor. They all looked down, and saw the keys sitting beside John's left foot. He reached down to pick them up, and handed them to Ollie.

"Thanks mate. I'll, uh, see you around I guess."

"Of course. Thanks again." Ollie left as quickly as he'd come, leaving John and Sherlock alone once again. John left Sherlock's side briefly to retrieve his phone, shoes, and wallet, then they left Ollie's house. As they walked down his driveway John felt Sherlock's arm find its way back onto his shoulders. He reached up and placed his hand over where Sherlock's was resting on his shoulder, interlacing their fingers, and Sherlock let out a heavy breath.

"Sorry," John said, removing his hand. "I know you're not really comfortable with... I mean, I'm not fully comfortable-"

"Just because I'm not used to this does not mean I don't enjoy it." John gave Sherlock a small smile, then returned his hand to its previous position. Sherlock gave his hand a slight squeeze and chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

"What?" John asked, looking up at him. Sherlock shook his head and smiled.

"Nothing, just..." he laughed again. "This is almost too good to be true." John joined in on his laughter, then nudged him in the side with his elbow.

"I know exactly how you feel."


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

The sun was sitting high in the afternoon sky, casting out rays of sunlight that warmed John's face as he stepped out of the car. He shielded his eyes from the light as he took the time to admire the remarkable architecture before him.

The cottage had cobblestone walls, and brown slate shingles. It was surrounded by a combination of rose, snapdragon, and what John thought to be marigold bushes, and the grass surrounding the cottage was lush and green. What John saw before him looked like it had been copied straight off of the front page of some Cottage Living magazine. And, John couldn't be sure, but he was pretty sure he heard some birds chirping in the distance. Looking around, John felt like he'd walked into some sort of fairytale, or at least a country cottage kingdom of sorts. Perhaps it was because John still couldn't believe he was here with Sherlock, perhaps it was because he was here celebrating their seven month anniversary, or perhaps it was simply because Sherlock's cottage was that beautiful. Whatever the reason, John was in complete awe of where he was at that current time.

After stuffing the car keys into his pocket he walked around to the boot of the car and opened it. As he was reaching inside to grab his luggage he noticed another pair of hands reach in as well. He took a small step to his right until the entire right side of his body was pressed against Sherlock, and he felt him chuckle. He pulled out his suitcases, then stood back and watched Sherlock, who was still bent over retrieving his own luggage, loving that he'd managed to convince Sherlock to wear jeans on this holiday of theirs. Sherlock no doubt could sense John's gaze, and he chose that moment to glance over his shoulder and smirked when he caught John staring. He turned back around and pulled out his two suitcases, then John closed the boot and they made their way up the stone path to the front door. Sherlock set down one of his bags, then reached into John's trouser pocket for the keys. Sherlock gave John a small smile as he held them up, then turned and unlocked the door. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, allowing John to enter first. He walked inside and let his suitcases rest by his feet as he took a look around.

The floors were wooden, which is to be expected in a cottage like this. The walls were cobblestone like the ones outside, though the interior walls were several shades darker than the exterior. A brown leather sectional couch took up the majority of the room, a brown wooden coffee table and fireplace taking up the rest of the space. There was an archway to his right, which seemed to lead to the kitchen. John noticed several bookshelves pushed against that wall, almost as if it had been an afterthought to put them there. John heard the front door close, and soon felt an arm resting on his shoulders.

"So, what do you think?" Sherlock asked.

"This place looks amazing," John said, still glancing around. He allowed Sherlock to lead him from room to room, showing him around the two-story cottage. After the tour John and Sherlock retired to the couch for the evening, with John sitting upright and Sherlock using John's lap as a pillow. An open book lay on Sherlock's chest, though John's mind was otherwise occupied with thoughts of a certain consulting detective who was currently nuzzling his face into Johns' stomach. The fingers on John's right hand were absentmindedly playing with Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock was massaging John's left hand with both of his. The only sound was that of the crackling fire, and the occasional sigh of contentment that came from Sherlock.

Sherlock's phone, which was sitting on the coffee table, lit up with a text, and the vibration startled both John and Sherlock. With a sigh, Sherlock released John's hand and reached over to grab it, frowning as he stared at the screen.

"Who is it?" Sherlock tapped out a response and set the phone back on the coffee table.

"Lucy." John sighed and rolled his eyes.

"You mean you still text her, after all-"

"This is the first time we've communicated in months. She was just wishing us a happy anniversary, and I thanked her." He reached up and placed a hand on John's cheek, then placed a gentle kiss on John's palm. "No need to be jealous." John didn't need to look down at Sherlock to know there was a smirk on his face, but he looked anyway so he could glare in response. Sherlock chuckled, then dropped his hand and closed his eyes. "I still can't believe you thought I had a secret girlfriend. Honestly John-"

"We all make mistakes," John said hurriedly, looking away from Sherlock's face and in the direction of the kitchen. A cup of tea was calling his name, but he wouldn't dare get up yet. He was very comfortable where he was. He felt Sherlock nodding his head in agreement.

"Some bigger than others," Sherlock said quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asked, staring down at Sherlock, who was smiling up at him.

"Relax John. I was referring to myself."

"What?"

"I made a mistake by going to her for advice."

"Oh. Well, I suppose she did help a bit, by not helping at all." Sherlock smiled again.

"Yeah, who knows how long we would've gone on like that if it hadn't been for your little bout of jealousy-induced rage." John laughed along, though he was still incredibly embarrassed after all this time at his 'outburst'.

"Hey," he said, "Let's not think about that. That was the past. All that matters is right here..." He brought Sherlock's hand up to his lips and kissed it. "Right now." Sherlock propped himself up on the couch, and John leaned down to kiss him once, twice, a third time.

"Not just that," Sherlock mumbled against his lips. John would've asked what Sherlock had meant by that, but at the moment all he could think about was how soft his hair was, and how amazing Sherlock's lips felt pressed against his own.

Slowly, Sherlock pulled away and sat up. John whined in protest, causing Sherlock to laugh as he stood.

"I'll be right back."

"Alright. You want some tea?" John asked, standing up as well.

"I'd love some, thank you."

John went into the kitchen and started on the preparations for the tea while Sherlock disappeared to who-knows-where to do who-knows-what. After several minutes had passed and Sherlock still hadn't reappeared, John considered going to look for him, but ultimately decided against it. He instead focused all of his attention on making the tea perfect.

"Only the best for my Sherlock," he said to himself, smiling.

"I'm flattered," said a deep voice in John's ear. A pair of long arms captured John in a tight embrace, and he felt Sherlock place a kiss on his shoulder. John chuckled, and struggled to turn around so he and Sherlock were face-to-face. He placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, and he felt Sherlock's hands on his waist, pulling him impossibly close.

"Sherlock," John said, in between kisses, "the tea."

"Who cares about the bloody tea," Sherlock growled before leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses along John's jaw line and neck.

"I do," John said, pushing Sherlock away. "There will be plenty of time for that later." He started to turn away from Sherlock, but the detective trapped him between his own body and the kitchen counter, an almost predatory look in his eyes.

"There's time for it now." Sherlock captured John's mouth in a passionate kiss, and this time when John pushed him away, it was not a rejection.

"Alright," he said, "Get your arse in that bed now."

"Wait," Sherlock said, holding up his hands. "There's something I want to do first."

"What?" Sherlock began to talk as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans.

"You see John, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"Big shocker there."

"Just let me finish." John pretended to 'zip his lips' and smiled up at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes but smiled back. "As I was saying, I was doing a lot of thinking about...us. And, though in most cases with relationships it takes quite a lot of time to get to know someone properly and decide if it's worth it to continue pursuing a life with that person. Only, in our case I believe the seven months to be sufficient, seeing as how we began our relationship after already being good friends and flat mates." Sherlock hesitated to continue, and though John had no idea where he was going with this he nodded his head. He reached down to take the hand Sherlock wasn't holding behind his back and offered an encouraging smile. Sherlock brought John's hand up to eye level and began examining it as he spoke.

"Just a few minutes ago you said that all that matters is the here and now, but I must say I disagree."

"Oh?"

"Yes. The future is equally as important as the present, if not more so." John watched silently as Sherlock licked his lips and took in a deep breath. "I've been thinking a lot about the future, and I've found that I cannot possibly imagine any version of mine without you in it. John, you have shown me what it is like to love someone and shown me what it feels like to truly be loved in return. I could go on forever about how until I met you there were so many things I thought I'd never do, never say, never feel or experience, and I can assure you that this was at the top of the list."

John felt a blush creeping into his cheeks, and a tightening in his chest as Sherlock held up a small black box. Sherlock met his curious and excited gaze with a small smile. He singlehandedly opened the box, revealing a single, silver band inside.

"John Hamish Watson, would you do me the honour of marrying me?" John's eyes grew wide and his right hand flew up to cover his mouth. He looked up at Sherlock and nodded his head.

"Yes," he breathed, removing his hand to smile at Sherlock. "God, yes."

Instantly a brilliant smile appeared on Sherlock's face and he threw his arms around John. John hugged him back equally as enthusiastically, then allowed Sherlock to slide the ring onto his finger. Never before had something felt so incredibly right than having that silver band on his left ring finger, and Sherlock's lips pressed against his own. Sherlock reached into his back pocket again and pulled out a ring identical to the one John was currently wearing. With shaking hands John managed to place the ring on Sherlock's finger, and their lips reunited in a tender kiss.

As John went to turn off the kettle and Sherlock went to the bedroom, John once again found himself in a state of disbelief. After all these years of feeling alone and unimportant, John seemed to have finally found his place in the world, and that place was right beside Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, and now his fiancé. Sure, there had been some bumps along the road, and sure their relationship wasn't perfect, but when he went into the bedroom and saw Sherlock waiting for him on the bed, smiling at him as twisted his engagement ring around his finger, he decided he wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
